


The Crux

by destieltothegrave



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Cop Dean, Criminal on the loose, Depression, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Gay Panic, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hurt Castiel, Jealousy, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Partying, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, So much angst, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Violence, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-06 17:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 71,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11605884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destieltothegrave/pseuds/destieltothegrave
Summary: When Gabriel suggests a night on the town for some writing inspiration, reclusive writer Castiel is only expecting to skirt the crowd and get plastered with overpriced whiskey. Instead, he comes face-to-face with the green-eyed object of his dreams...and nightmares.Faith isn't high up on Dean Winchester's list of priorities, but when the love of his life turns up on a bar stool in the middle of Sammy's bachelor party-well, maybe there's something to be said for believing after all.Now he just has to convince Cas he’s not the same guy who broke his heart in college.And just as their chaotic world begins to settle, a murderer with a vendetta threats to tear it all away again.





	1. Chapter One

 

Chapter One

**Castiel**

 

"Please leave me alone."

"No can do," Gabriel replies, cheerful as ever. "I'm picking you up at nine. Don't stand me up, kiddo."

Castiel presses his knuckles hard into his eye sockets. He only stops when he sees stars. He wants to tell Gabriel he hates him, but it would be a lie. Except for one time, Castiel has never lied, and he does not intend to repeat the transgression now. "If I come, will you swear to leave me in peace for the duration of the month?"

 Over the phone, Gabriel pauses. His brother did not become a successful businessman by making poor trades, but even he knows there is only so much one can pry from Castiel before he shuts down. "If that's what you want. But you better make tonight worth my while."

Castiel makes a noncommittal grunt and hangs up. As irritating as Gabriel is, his voice fills the silence sometimes, and Castiel finds he misses it almost as soon as it's gone. His one-bedroom apartment is designed for maximum darkness and privacy, a feature Castiel had reveled in when he was twenty-two. Three years have somehow turned the darkness oppressive and the quiet menacing. Heaving a sigh, he rises from his desk and flips on a few light switches on his way to the kitchen. He's not much of a cook, as evident by the bare counters and dismal supplies of his tiny kitchen. The only consistent grocery in his fridge is a bottle of Jack Daniels. With the amount he's consumed over the years, he likes to muse that perhaps his growing alcoholism keeps the brand in business. 

He pours himself a bowl of cereal and returns to his desk. The screen fell asleep while he was away, and when he swipes his finger over the pad, he's greeted with a glowing screen of nothing. A blank page, a ticking cursor, and a reminder that his teetering writing career is closer to the edge than ever. His bowl of cereal sits untouched while Castiel glares at the screen, trying to force words to appear through the sheer force of his will. But of course, that is impossible. Words must come from something, and Castiel feels like less than nothing. He closes the browser and watches another documentary about bees dying, as if his mood could plummet any lower. His neglected cereal only grows soggier, but Castiel can't bring himself to eat.

Maybe Gabriel is right. Maybe a night at a loud nightclub filled with faceless people and liquor abound will inspire his writing. It can't hurt, anyway. Castiel made a name for himself by writing love stories with awful, twisted endings. In addition to his refusal to use his real name or appear at signings or readings, he's acquired the moniker of the 'Shadow Man', and rightfully so. Not only does he create shadows, but he excels at dwelling in them.

Sometime during the second documentary, he falls asleep on his desk and wakes up to a sharp slap upside his head. "Bro! Come on."

"Gabriel?" Castiel mutters. He doesn't rise. This is the first time he's gotten any decent sleep in months, and he fervently hopes Gabriel will experience temporary amnesia and walk out.

"Who else? Why aren't you dressed? Your ear is in a bowl of cereal, for chrissakes."

Oh. That's what that strange sensation was. He would be content to lay there, milky ear or not, but a promise is a promise. Castiel forces himself to lift his head and nod at Gabriel. "I apologize. I will be ready within ten minutes."

Gabriel studies his brother with something akin to sadness before pasting on his cavalier grin and punching his shoulder. "I'm counting down. Go pretty yourself up, princess."

Within the allotted time period, Castiel wears a blue button-down Anna bought for his birthday, and grey slacks. He considers leaving his trench coat at home to forego Gabriel's mockery, but it provides him with an invaluable sense of comfort. He can't go out without it. 

To his credit, Gabriel only eyes the coat with mild distaste before leading them to his Tesla. The interior smells like leather and Gabriel's signature cologne, and Castiel allows himself to relax a little in his seat. So what if they're outside? He doesn't have to fit in at a nightclub. It's not like high school, when he was the kid constantly scribbling in a notebook and eating along in the locker rooms. Or college, where instead of writing and notebooks, he'd clung to one person for safety, only to have his trust thrown in his face. 

Castiel's entire demeanor darkens as it does when he thinks of  _him_. Of the boy with green eyes and a cheeky smile, who navigated the world with an ease Castiel could never achieve. The boy Castiel had tutored in English for three hours a week and stared at in class until his profile seared itself into his retinas. The boy who touched Castiel until his back bowed and ecstasy roared through his body, but didn't so much as share a meal with him outside the four walls of his dorm. Four years Castiel had spent rationalizing the demeaning behavior away. Four years he'd let himself be treated like a second-class citizen by the man he loved. He was toxic to Castiel, who had little experience in love but knew it shouldn't make you hurt so much. It shouldn't have ached to pass him on campus, to only see his smile in private. For a while, it hadn't mattered. He'd drowned in the pain because with it came the sweetest bliss. With it came sweaty nights and tangled limbs, came broken cries of pleasure and midnight confessions. 

It's only when Gabriel parks the car that Castiel jolts back into the present. His digs his nails into his palms, leaving half-moon imprints on his pale skin. "Are we here?"

"Yep. Let's go."

There is a long line at the entrance, but Gabriel bypasses the waiting masses without a pause. After a few moments of hushed conversation with the burly bouncer, money exchanges hands and Gabriel is tugging him into a world of loud music, flashing lights, and enough sexual tension to set his nerves further on edge. Gabriel immediately sets his sights on the dance floor. "Go have fun! I'm gonna be other there if you need, alright?"

Castiel nods, already making his way around the grinding couples and stumbling students to the bar. He slides onto a stool and pushes his credit card across the counter. "An Old Fashioned, please. And keep them coming." The bartender takes his credit card and disappears, returning with a glass tumbler of amber liquid.

Castiel tosses it back and revels in the burn. 

 

 

**Dean**

 

 "Why'd we have to leave?" Dean complains, staggering behind Ash. He narrowly avoid tripping over a fire hydrant. 

"Jess said I couldn't stay longer than an hour," Sam replies, grabbing Dean's elbow when he careens towards Garth. Dean shakes off his brother's hold and laughs. "Dude. Do you hear yourself? You're so whipped."

"So?" Sam's not the least bit embarrassed about his devotion to his would-be bride. Not many guys would need to be dragged to a strip club for their bachelor party, nor would they fulfill a promise to leave after a single hour. Sam's a good fiance, and as fun as it is to mock him, Dean can't help but smile. Smart and faithful. Not only did Sam graduate early from undergrad, where he'd had the fortune of meeting the love of his life, but he was admitted to Stanford Law on a full ride. Not a single parent was as fiercely proud as Dean watching Sammy walk across the stage to get his high school diploma, and then his college diploma. It still struck him as a miracle sometimes that he managed to raise this brilliant, kind, generous kid without fucking him up. 

"Bitch," Dean supplies in lieu of an answer. He's too toasted to remember what they were talking about. 

"Jerk."

"Can you two shut up?" Ash complains. "I signed up for a night on the town, not more Winchester bickering."

"Bickering is how they show affection," Garth says. He fancies himself an expert on the twisted lives of the Winchester clan, with all its secrets and betrayals. Ironic, he's only barely scraped first layer of shit that compiles their lives. 

"There. We've arrived," Sam interjects with a long-suffering sigh. He points to the entrance of a posh nightclub that Dean vaguely recognizes as a place for trust fund babies and arrogant professional types. Completely unlike the hole in the wall bars him and his cop buddies frequent, or the Roadhouse where Dean tends bar on the weekends for an extra buck. The line winds around the building, and Dean is about to pitch another fit when Ash strides past the line, gesturing for them to follow. 

Garnering pissed-off glances from the lined patrons, they meet Ash by the bouncer. They're laughing like they're old buddies, which isn't outside the realm of possibilities. Ash is an eccentric dude with a social circle of colorful weirdos. Within minutes, they're ushered into the nightclub. 

"How'd you do that?" Garth asks, impressed. They weave to around the teeming dance floor to an booth a few paces behind the bar. 

Ash shrugs. "He's a regular at the Roadhouse."

Dean takes in the frosted glass panels wrapping around the club and the reflective dark glass of the walls. Everything's bound to expensive as shit. He considers scoring some cash off the pool tables, but he's still pretty tipsy. This crowd is usually relatively easy to scam, but Dean's not on his game at the moment. "I'm gonna go get drinks."

Sam tries to hand him his credit card, but retracts it with a sigh at Dean's scandalized look. "I'm the best man, you ass. Drinks on me." He'd gotten paid yesterday, so he has some disposable income to drink away. It isn't often Dean has nights like these. Each promotion in the police department meant more responsibility, and Dean can't afford to spend many nights smashed out of his mind. On the special night commemorating Sammy's neutering by one Jessica Moore, he's willing to make an exception. 

"Barkeep," he calls, slapping a handful of cash on the counter. The guy doesn't hear him, too busy catering to the line of patrons wrapped around the bar. Dean waits impatiently, tapping his fingers on the marble counter. Out of habit, he surveys the emergency exits and assesses the crowd for anything usual. When the bartender bypasses him for the third time carrying the same glass of whiskey, Dean irritation comes to a head. He cranes his neck to see where the hell the bartender keeps carrying all these drinks. 

At first, Dean is certain he's hallucinating. Yeah, that's it. He had a bad batch of liquor at the strip club. Who can trust booze from a place called 'Shimmy', anyway? That has to be it, because there's no other explanation for why he's seeing a dark head of unkempt hair nursing a glass with familiar long, pale fingers. Or why his memory has resurrected that damn trench coat. It's a coincidence. 

But then the trench coat wearing mirage looks up to signal the bartender, and Dean's heart stops. No amount of alcohol could make him mistake those vivid blue eyes, those chapped lips. The bridge of his nose is still slightly crooked. His hair falls into his face, tangling with the long, sooty eyelashes that Dean would lay awake counting every night throughout college. The music fades into the background as Dean convinces his lungs to keep drawing air. 

He has to get out of here. It's been four years, but fuck if Dean is any closer to knowing how to handle himself around the man who tore his heart to shreds without a blink of those devastating ocean blues. 

Of course, right then the bartender decides to saddle on up to Dean to take his order. "Sorry for the wait. What's your poison?"

_Him. The guy over there in the trench coat._

_"_ I'm good," Dean says nervously, fisting his cash into his pocket. He takes a small step backward. 

"You sure?" the bartender checks. It's only sheer willpower keeping Dean from bolting for the door. Any minute now, he could be caught. 

"Positive. Thanks."

Dean turns, but it's too late. Somehow, the brief lull in the music must have carried his voice. Either that, or fate is being her usual sadistic self, because Castiel chooses that moment to look up from his drink and meet Dean's gaze. Dean watches him go from startled to aghast in the spam of a heartbeat. Bile burns Dean's throat, and he presses a fist to his stomach to keep from chucking his insides all over the floor. 

 _Move, you idiot!_ He screams, but his feet aren't  cooperating. They are fixed in place, impervious to the jostling crowd and the demands of Dean's brain. 

This has to be the night of impossibilities that don't stop giving, because another cosmic fissure breaks through this shitty, overpriced nightclub. 

Castiel stands up and begins to weave towards him.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Chapter Two

FRESHMAN YEAR- SEVEN YEARS AGO

**Castiel**

 

Castiel's stomach sinks when Dean presents him a paper with only half the required word count and none of the formatting he'd recommended. They're sitting at their customary table on the fifth floor of the university library, surrounded by bookshelves and floating dust motes. "Dean..." Castiel starts hesitantly. He hates criticizing Dean's work, but he's not being paid by the school to tutor him in mitigation. Of course, it would be much easier if Dean simply followed instructions every now and then. "This is due tomorrow, and it is only half-written. This paper is worth twenty percent of your grade."

 Dean shrugs out of his leather jacket, hanging on the back of the chair. He's wearing a fitted white tee and ripped jeans, and Castiel tries very hard not to trace the broad lines of his shoulders or notice how his biceps bulge when he crosses his arms over his chest. Castiel's in good shape, lean and built, but he's never quite managed to reach the masculine ease with which Dean carries himself. "Relax. I'll get the rest done tonight."

Castiel presses his lips into a flat line, sensing the lie. "No, you won't."

Dean huffs out a laugh. "No, I won't."

Smoothing the pages against the desk, Castiel searches for the right words to gently express his disapproval. To be a disciplinarian to someone like Dean Winchester is incredibly difficult, and Castiel's absurd attraction to his student doesn't help either. He'd noticed him in International Relations the first day of freshman  year and been struck mute by the beautiful boy. Now here he is approximately one year later, failing at the one opportunity he has to help Dean in any meaningful way. 

"Cas," Dean sighs after another minute of silence. "Don't worry, okay? I'm staying on the ball with my assignments. I already did the math, and doing badly on this paper won't make much of a dent if I ace the final."

"But why take the risk?" Castiel asks. The tips of his ears are blushing red at Dean's nickname. His brothers never tried to shorten his name, and he'd never had any friends close enough to try. "Wouldn't it be better to do well on the paper to allow yourself more leeway on the final?"

Dean shrugs. "In a perfect world, yeah. But I've had work all week, and I can't take tonight off. I'll try to fix it up so it's the best half-assed essay Professor Gill will ever read."

Of course. Castiel briefly forgot about Dean's job obligations. He worked himself into the ground after school to raise money for his little brother, who was set to go to college in a few years. He'd admitted this to Castiel a few months into their sessions, and Castiel had been ridiculously touched to have this insight into the mysterious Dean Winchester. On a few rare occasions, Dean would set aside his facade of devil-may-care charisma and impenetrability and allow Castiel to see beyond it. Maybe he wouldn't if knew that Castiel clutched those moments close, hoarding them like the diamonds they were. 

"I see," Castiel says. His pen works it's way down the paper, marking the grammar mistakes with a sharp red line and circling sentences where Dean completely diverged from the given topic. Overall, it's a good paper, which doesn't come as a surprise. Dean's smart. It's how he managed to get into this small liberal arts school, although he likes to pretend it's due to his exceptional football scholarship. 

Dean listens to Castiel's corrections and advice on how to proceed with stoic focus. He runs his gaze briefly over the red lines decorating his paper before laying it down. "I'll fix it before work. Thanks, man. I'd be utterly screwed without you."

Damn it, but Castiel is blushing again. He focuses on the necklace Dean while he struggles to hide his pleasure at the compliment. "Of course. It's my job."

"Still. Most of the tutors the school assigned me quit after a few weeks. It's been a year and you're still saving my sorry ass from being expelled."

Castiel can't fathom how anyone would willingly give up time with Dean, but he is fervently glad they did. Their loss has been his immeasurable gain. 

"Then you're welcome."

 

THE PRESENT

**Castiel**

He's drunk. The drinks have finally crossed his high threshold and rendered him a hallucinating, fumbling drunk. 

The voice he heard had shocked him like a live-wire, bringing his body to attention more effectively than a bucket of ice water. When he'd glanced up to find it attached to Dean Winchester, he'd wondered if he'd somehow died between the seventh and tenth drink the bartender had plied him with. 

But then green eyes had met his, eyes that haunted Castiel's dreams, and he'd known it was real. 

Where is Gabriel? Castiel can't stay here. He needs to get away from those eyes, from the man they're attached to. He slides to his feet and nearly pitches into a waiter, but quickly rights himself. He stumbles blindly into the crowd of dancers, searching for this brother. Bodies press against him, sweating and smelling of lust and drink. Castiel cringes away, panic descending on him swiftly. Oxygen is in short supply as he shoves people aside in vain. Gabriel is nowhere to be found, and Castiel is in the middle of the dance floor, struggling to breathe. The bodies press closer, until Castiel cannot feel an inch of his himself that isn't pressed against the hot skin of another, or breathe air untainted with cologne or cloying perfume. He thinks he's sinking, crumpling to the floor as the music and the crowd besiege his senses. 

A strong hand wraps around his elbow, pulling him from the ground and cutting a swathe through the writhing masses. Castiel is dragged along, trying to blink his blurry vision into clarity. He's being taken towards a back exit, and he knows he should be alarmed that he can't see more than a foot in front of him, but he is not. As long as he gets away, it doesn't matter much where. 

The metal door swings open and Castiel gulps the fresh California night air greedily. He only faintly notices the door click shut behind him or that he's not alone. The panic slowly laps away, like the receding waves of a tumultuous sea. He exhales, weak and weary, and slumps back against the wall. 

With his eyes closed, he quirks his lips up into a bitter smile. How ironic it is that his savior and his damnation are one and the same. 

"Hello, Dean."

 

 

**Dean**

 

What was he thinking? Jesus, what a fucking idiotic move. 

Still, he can't bring himself to regret it. He knows Cas, knows the signs of an incoming panic attack. He'd witnessed his fair share of them back in the day. Dean tried to bring himself to leave Cas swerving drunkenly through the crowd, but he couldn't. The instinct to protect Cas hadn't faded, and it pisses Dean off. 

Cas leans back against the wall with his eyes closed. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. Dean takes this unobserved moment to study Cas hungrily. He'd hoped his memory had overestimated how gorgeous Castiel Novak was, but clearly not. Lean but strong, with powerful muscles Dean had reveled in squeezing and clutching. His narrow hips hold his slacks with artful ease, and despite being nearly as built as Dean, Cas was a thousand times more graceful. Dean always felt like a bull in a china shop around Cas, who's every move was measured and sinuous. 

Dean's calculating the fastest way to flee when Cas breaks the silence. 

"Hello, Dean." 

God, his  _voice._ That deep growl of a voice that burns through Dean like a flame to gasoline. Dean's vocal cords have gone on hiatus, nowhere to be found. When the silence lengthens, Cas opens his eyes and stares at Dean. 

"Hey, Cas." There they are, functional if not a little rickety.  _Cas_. He can't help savoring the name he hasn't dared speak in years. 

There's a chasm between them, an endless abyss of betrayals and injury and anger. Neither can cross it, but they don't have to in order to have a polite conversation, right? Dean fidgets, shifting from foot to foot. Cas notices, of course. Cas sees everything with those bottomless blue eyes. "So, what brings you to this part of town?" Immediately, Dean wants to slap himself. What a dumb question. This is downtown Los Angeles, hardly an unusual place to be. Although it is a bit far from the school he and Cas attended in Texas. 

Cas takes his sweet time answering Dean's question. Is he enjoying Dean's discomfort? Probably, the jackass. "I live twenty minutes away."

Shocked, Dean rocks back on his heels. "No shit? For how long?"

"Three years."

Holy friggin' hell. Is he saying he's practically been Dean's neighbor since Dean moved here two years ago to accept the prestigious position with the LAPD and be closer to Sam? Sam, who probably thinks Dean is dead in a ditch somewhere given how long he's been gone. "Wow. That's wild. I live here, too."

There's no answer from Cas. The motherfucker is inscrutable, impossible to read. They'd always communicated better through touch. When he was under Dean's hands, Dean could read Cas like braille, trailing his fingers over his body and drinking in every needy sound and squirm. 

 _Shit_. Dean slams the door on that particular trip down memory lane. Cas is still watching him quietly, so Dean forges ahead. "Did you come with someone? You're pretty plastered. I can go get them." 

Cas scowls, the first emotion Dean's seen from him since the initial horror of recognition at the bar. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? I'm being nice." He decides not to tack on the implicit 'asshole'. 

"Why are you being nice? Why did you rescue me?" He seems truly baffled, and for some reason, it pains Dean to his bones.

Quietly, he says, "Don't you think you deserve to be saved?" Parroting back the words Cas had shouted at him with teary eyes and shaking hands five years ago. 

This Cas freezes, hands balling into fists at his sides. Fuck. He shouldn't have said that. It's a low blow. He's gearing to apologize when Cas suddenly pitches to the side, falling to his knees and vomiting onto the asphalt. The hacking noises make Dean wince. Most of his buzz has worn off, and he's grateful he didn't end up where Cas is. Automatically, he kneels by Cas's side, but Cas springs away like Dean's poisonous. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and turns around, struggling with the handle of the door. When it refuses to open, Cas slams his fist against the metal, making Dean jump. 

"Dude, let's just go around front. If you came here alone, we can call you a cab." Dean's disturbed. He's never seen Cas like this. Sure, he'd started drinking a little too much senior year, his normally melancholy moods tumbling into seething self-hate and depression, but he was never  _violent_. Was this aggression always lying under the surface, or have the years brought it about?

"Go away," Cas snaps. "I can take care of myself."

Dean grinds his teeth. "Doesn't look like it."

Cas spins to face him, nostrils flared and pupils dilated. Is he going to try to fight him? When had this night turned to such a shit-show? "Shut up, Dean. Just shut up."

"I'm trying to help you, you stubborn bastard!"

"I don't need your help!" Cas yells, voice echoing off the brick walls of the alley. He advances on Dean, and Dean's seriously worried he's going to have to knock Cas out, but they're thankfully interrupted by a shout from the other end of the alley. They both turn towards the intrusion. 

A short guy in a posh navy suit Dean recognizes as Gabriel, Cas's older brother, hurries toward them. "What the hell are you doing back here? If this is some kind of hook-up, just take it back to your place before you someone puts pictures on the inter-oh. Oh, fuck me. Dean Winchester?"

Dean flashes him his bitchiest grin. "In the flesh. How's it hanging, Gabe?"

Gabriel's expression tightens, and Dean gets the sense that if Cas wasn't here, Gabriel might risk sullying his manicured nail by taking a swing at Dean. But Cas is in bad shape, and Gabriel's attention quickly goes to his brother. "Let's get you home, kid."

"I don't need help," Cas mutters sullenly, but the heat is gone. He leans into Gabriel heavily, and Dean wants to kick himself. Sure, he's got a bone or twenty to pick with Cas, but he shouldn't have gotten the guy riled up when he's in such shitty condition. Dean wants to take Cas's other side and help Gabriel down the alley, but he just watches the pair disappear around the corner. He drinks in Cas, knowing it might be the last chance he has, and tries to will Cas into looking at Dean so he can get one last flash of those eyes.

But Cas never looks back. 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel tries to forget.  
> But Dean's not that easy to shake.

Chapter 3

**Dean**

Sammy's wedding is in two weeks and Dean can't even bring himself to get through a single meal without zoning out. He's spent the last thirty minutes picking at the tilapia or whatever the hell healthy fish this is supposed to be. If only he could chalk his lack of appetite to the food, but it's not. The fish tastes like chalk and the trying to make conversation is like driving nails through his skull because he can't stop thinking about last night. 

While he and Sam clean up after dinner, Sam elbows him in the ribs. "Ow!" Dean exclaims. "The hell was that for?"

"What's up with you? You've been out of it since you got here."

"You two were talking about class. I got bored and stopped listening."

"Bullshit. You pay attention when I talk about school."

Well. Sam has him there. Dean just hopes he'll take the hint and drop it. Unfortunately, he must have forgotten that the Winchester gene doesn't come with a manual on common etiquette, because Sam keeps going. "Is this about what happened at the bar last night?"

Dean tenses. As far as Sam and the others know, he was at the bar so long because he'd gone to take a leak before getting in line. The others bought the story, wandering off to find their hook-ups of the night and leaving Dean with his much-too-observant brother. Sam asked why Dean wasn't joining the others in finding a warm body to spend the night with, and why he hadn't touched his drink. Of course, Dean didn't tell him the truth. He didn't tell his favorite person in the world that the man he once thought was the love of his life had looked at Dean like he was shit on the bottom of his shoe. 

"You think too much, Sammy," Dean says, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder and pasting on his trademark smirk. "Nervous about the ole ball and chain?"

"Don't let her hear you say that," Sam chuckles, shooting a glance towards the living room. Thankfully, Jess is absorbed in  _Dr. Sexy_ and paying no attention to the boys. She's forbidden Dean from watching with her since he always spoils the twists. 

"Yeah, yeah. She'd kick my nuts through my ass. But seriously." Dean levels a serious look at his brother. He's not great with the feelings or the deep emotional shit, but he wants to make sure this is what Sam wants. He needs to know Sam's marrying Jess for the right reasons, and not because of his quest to have a normal life after their less-than-traditional upbringing. "You good?" 

To his relief, Sam smiles widely into the sink of soapy dishes. His stupid hair flops into his face, but it can't hide the radiant joy emanating from him. "Yeah, man. I'm more than good."

If only one Winchester is allowed to get a happy ending in this world, Dean is damn glad it's his little brother. More than anyone, he deserves it. Dean wonders what his mother would think of Jessica. What his Dad would. 

Then he wonder what they'd think about Cas. He snorts while he drys the dishes Sammy passes over, knowing full well how John Winchester would feel about Cas. Until his death when Dean was nineteen, there wasn't much Dean could do please John. He got the better end of it, though. Every time John looked at Sam, Dean is certain all he saw was the infant who'd cried and fussed and kept Mary so weary and sleep-deprived that she fell asleep with the stove on, not waking when the dish rag on the side caught fire. Not waking when Dean, who was watching Sam in his room, smelled smoke and yelled for his dad. But Dad was at work, and he was supposed to be watching Sammy. So he carried his brother out, and when he got back from the neighbor's, it was too late. The smoke was too thick, the flames too hot. Dean could only stand on his lawn and watch as his house and his mother burned to the ground. 

He hadn't cried. John had screamed and sobbed and hit a police officer, but Dean had wiped soot and ash from his cheeks and gone to check on Sam, dry-eyed and stoic. Sure, it felt like his chest was caving, like a boulder had crashed through his ribs and dissolved into acid. But Sammy hadn't had his bottle, and Dean knew John wasn't going to remember. 

The only person he's ever told about that night is Cas. It had been in darkness of Cas's apartment while they were tangled together under the blankets, but he'd done it. He'd shared with Cas, and somehow, it had relieved some of the wreckage from the night that had remained lodged inside him.

"You're doing it again," Sam sighs. "Do I need to call a doctor or something?" He dries his hands and frowns sternly at Dean. 

"No can do." Dean tosses the rag onto the counter and grabs his phone. He's got a dumb idea, and he needs to get to the station before he wises up. "Got crap insurance."

 

**Castiel**

"That'll be forty dollars," the cashier grunts, chewing his gum with obscenely moist smacks. Castiel tries not to wince as he passes over his credit card and takes the paper bag. The entire walk to his apartment, Castiel jumps at every sound, cringes at any fleeting shadow. When did he become such a coward? He's never fit in, always feeling out of place in the world, but he never reached the point where he feared it. 

Maybe now that he knows Dean Winchester can manifest from thin air, the world has become a much more dangerous place. Castiel locks the door behind him and goes straight towards the kitchen cabinet. He pours himself a drink and stores the bottle he'd picked up in the fridge, along with the seven packs of instant meals. Except to get his mail, he doesn't see any reason why he should have to leave his apartment any time this week. 

Since last night, Gabriel has called him incessantly, even attempting to visit before realizing Castiel had no intention of getting out of bed until late in the afternoon. He's worried seeing Dean will have a negative effect. Castiel can't imagine why. He went out to get writing inspiration, and the universe provided it. The rage fueling the endings to his stories is restored, and Castiel plans to funnel every last drop into his novel. He'll write Dean Winchester out of his system, and if this book isn't enough to contain his demons, he'll write more. He'll write until his fingers bleed if it means he can finally have peace. 

But when he sits in front of his laptop, nothing comes. He writes a sentence and erases it. He tries to write long-hand, but the scribbling has no meaning. An hour passes, and Castiel is no closer to filling the blank page on his screen than he was yesterday. His frustration is at a peak when his phone rings, shrill and startling in the silence. 

It's his agent. Castiel debates not answering, but it will only prolong the inevitable. Curling onto his tattered green armchair, he heaves a sigh before answering. "Yes, Hannah?"

"Where's your draft? Your deadline was last week and you've been avoiding my calls." She's prompt and to the point, a quality Castiel had initially admired. He does not find it as gratifying at the moment. 

"I have been experiencing some...difficulties. I have no new writing to give you. My apologies."

Hannah exhales. "You're not making my life any easier, Novak. If I didn't think you were the most talented writer I've ever worked with, you'd be done. Finished."

"I know."

"You have two more weeks to finish the draft. If I don't have it by then, you're gonna have to find yourself a new agent. Clear?"

Two weeks. Two weeks to turn his turmoil into a language others can read and edit and market. "It is clear. Thank you."

She hangs up. Castiel places the phone on the coffee table and rocks back in the chair, relishing the tortured creak of the springs. This used to be his writing chair before Hannah recommended he treat writing like a real job and get himself situated at a desk. All the desk has achieved is shackling Castiel to his failure. 

The only sound in his apartment is the quiet hum from the fridge. Castiel considers sleeping, but knows it will yield nothing. True rest has evaded him for a long time, and last night ensured he wouldn't be able to close his eyes without seeing Dean, as if a single sighting was all his brain needed to embed the image into his eyelids for eternity. 

 

**Dean**

Has he officially lost what little sense he has? 

He must have. Why else is he skulking the hall to his office to avoid running into Benny or Jo? They're both on duty tonight, and he doesn't want to answer any questions. Not when he's got no damn clue what he's doing. His promotion to assistant chief had come with a swanky office, which Dean had hated with a passion until he realized it meant he could take naps and watch  _Dr. Sexy_ during his breaks. 

The universe isn't being a prickly bitch tonight, because he gets to his office without being spotted. He forgoes the main light and flips on his desk lamp, firing up his computer while he returns to lock the door. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the strands. The slight pain doesn't make him any less of a dumbass, because he types Cas's name into the police database and clicks 'enter'. 

There's only one 'Castiel Novak' in the immediate area, and there's little to no record on him. His current address is listed, but no place of employment, no priors, not even so much as a speeding ticket to vouch that this person is real and living. 

That's Cas's address, though. He knows where to find him. He's driven past that neighborhood hundreds of times on patrols. It would be so simple. He could get in his car and be there in under fifteen minutes. 

The impulse is overpowering. Dean groans, showing his fists into his temples and screwing his eyes shut. He will not use this information to track down Cas. It's illegal. It's wrong. Cas couldn't be bothered to spare Dean a second glance last night. He certainly won't appreciate seeing him appear on his doorstep. 

A knock on the door interrupts his internal argument. Jo stands on the other side, wearing her uniform and hip cocked as she waits for Dean to open the door. 

Fuck. He's been found out. 

He considers flipping her the bird and jumping out the window, but knowing Jo, she'd only get in her car and run him over on the street. Defeated, he crosses the room and opens the door. "What?"

She pushes past him. Rolling his eyes, Dean shuts the door and rounds the desk to his seat. "Can I help you with something, Officer Harvelle?"

"Aren't you off tonight?" she asks. "You know you're not allowed to look up porn on the work computer, right?"

"Fuck off. I forgot some paperwork I need to get done. Doing my job, a concept you know nothing about."

"Can it, Winchester. I'm the only reason you're not six feet under right now."

She's right. Before his promotion, Dean and Jo were partners, and they'd had each other's backs dealing with the worst scum and scourge of LA. He appreciates the hell out of Jo, but he isn't about to tell her that. "Again, I'll ask: what do you want?"

Instead of answering, she grabs his computer screen and turns it towards her, cables and all. "Hey!" Dean shouts, yanking it back, but it's too late. 

"Who's Castiel Novak?"

Dean swallows and composes his expression into a smooth, blank mask. It's too easy after all the practice he's had. "Just a name I need for a report. Bobby and Ellen RSVP for the wedding yet?" Dean knows they have, but he needs to change the subject. Lying about Cas makes him physically ill. It brings up memories Dean doesn't like to dwell on. Every good thing he's done in his life becomes questionable when he thinks of how he wronged Cas, over and over until it became second nature. 

But Cas didn't take it sitting down. No, Cas knew how to retaliate, where to dig the knife to hurt Dean the most. 

Dean's got a good thing going. His life's on track for the first time in...well, ever. Steady paycheck, a job he loves, and Sammy's got a girl who puts a big, dumb smile on his face. The last thing he needs is to drive down to West Sycamore Street, Unit 5 and send it all straight to hell. 

"Dean. Dean," Jo repeats, waving her hand in the air. "Are you okay?"

Jo's concern grates on Dean. He smirks, mussing her hair as he rounds the desk. "Peachy keen, kid. Tell Bobby he still owes me for the pool game last weekend."

"Wait!" she calls, but Dean's out the door. He keeps his head down until he gets into the Impala, starts the engine, and hesitates. 

The engine of his baby purrs, waiting for his command. He clenches the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. 

But his decision was made the second he saw that head of dark hair across the bar. Dean turns onto the highway, knowing this is going to end bloody, knowing this is one fight he won't win, and knowing that no force on heaven or earth can get him to turn back. 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: "I'll Be Good" by Jaymes Young  
> "Grace is just weakness...but the blood on my hands scares me to death. Maybe I'm waking up today."

Chapter 4

SIX YEARS AGO

**Castiel**

Dean is coming to his apartment. 

Pacing back and forth over the 453 square feet of the apartment does little to soothe Castiel's nerves. He reminds himself that this arrangement is only because the library is closed for the holidays and Dean lives with four noisy athletes. This will be a study session like any other. He doubles checks that his apartment is in order. Not that it's often untidy, but he wants Dean to be comfortable. 

 _How will he be comfortable if you don't stop pining after him?_ The chastising voice has gained volume during the year Castiel tutored Dean. They're sophomores now, and Castiel had truly hoped that the crush would wane with time, or at least fade into the background. But it's only grown in magnitude, feeding an ache in Castiel's chest that won't go away. It's asinine. Dean is his pupil, and even if his scruples allowed him to bypass this fact, there is also Castiel's knowledge that Dean is a flagrant womanizer. He never discusses his bedroom partners with Castiel, for which he is immeasurably grateful, but it's a small campus. Castiel has seen him with many of the most coveted females and heard stories exchanged in conspiratorial whispers during class . 

The only affection Dean harbors for Castiel is friendly, and the sooner Castiel accepts this, the better it will be. 

A sharp rap on the door sends his pulse thundering. He's here. 

Castiel dries his sweaty palms on his trench coat and opens the door. Fall has brought more rain than Kansas often sees this time in the season, and Dean shakes water from his hair as he steps over the threshold. There are rain drops caught on his eyelashes, too, and Castiel almost whimpers when Dean swipes his tongue over his bottom lip to catch any lingering moisture. 

"Raining like a mother out there," Dean comments. He pulls his notebook from under his jacket and checks that it's dry. He glances at Castiel with an arched brow. "You gonna give me the tour or what?"

"Right, certainly," Castiel mumbles. He closes the door and leads Dean around the tiny area. It's a studio apartment, and he tries not to linger on his bed as he points out the bathroom and kitchen. Dean's presence in his home makes everything seem smaller, as if Dean's absorbed the space into himself. 

"Nice place you got. Where's your TV?" 

"I...don't own one." 

"No way!" Dean's brows hit his hairline. Another test Castiel seems to have failed. "What do you do when you're bored?"

Castiel takes a seat on on the wooden table he eats his meals on. Dean sits beside him, and Castiel tries not to shiver at the waves of heat emanating from him. "I read, mostly. Or I write," he answers absently, estimating the distance he needs to keep his knee from brushing Dean's. 

Dean's elbows are on the table, and he props his chin on his fist to watch Castiel. There's a softness in his features that Castiel tries very, very hard not to misread. "You write? Can I read something?"

Ah. Castiel flushes and attempts to piece together a polite refusal. No one reads his work, especially not the person who inspires a great deal of it. 

"Never mind," Dean says quickly. He smiles, a quick quirk of his lips that assures Castiel he's not upset. "Writing's personal, I get it. And speaking of writing, are you and your handy dandy red pen ready to make some noise?" He changes the subject smoothly, to Castiel's overwhelming gratitude.

While Castiel attempts to decipher how his pen will produce sound, Dean slides his paper from his composition notebook. The essay isn't due until after Thanksgiving break, and Castiel was only expecting to brainstorm ideas for the paper. It's a pleasant surprise to have Dean take the initiative. 

While Castiel reads through it, Dean stands and wanders off, perusing the apartment with fascination. It's distracting, and Castiel rereads the same sentence six times before he moves on. The paper is Dean's best work to date. He's curbed his use of the passive voice, removed unnecessary adverbs, and remained consistently true to the thesis.

"Why is your place so empty?" Dean asks, dropping to the couch and tossing his arms around the back. He has a habit of sitting with his legs spread far apart that isn't helping Castiel focus.

"I have the necessities to live comfortably. Perhaps they're not much compared to standard conveniences." 

Dean studies Castiel for a long moment. Castiel fidgets and wishes he hadn't taken his coat off. Is Dean realizing how strange Castiel is? How much better off he would be with a tutor who understood his jokes? A tutor who didn't start a sentence and trail off midway because he got distracted counting Dean's freckles? 

"You're an odd dude, Cas," Dean finally speaks. A grin spreads across his face, and it's as if the sun's breaking over the horizon just to shine on Castiel. "Never change."

Castiel's heart soars, and he knows right then he can't maintain this charade. This isn't fair to Dean. Castiel's weakness should not burden Dean's education. 

He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, determined to deliver the dismissal with grave authority. "Thank you for the compliment. I'm afraid this will be our last session together, Dean. I won't be able to tutor you anymore." He taps the pen against the paper, a nervous tick he's picked up from Dean.

Dean's brows furrow. He waits, as if expecting a retraction. When none is forthcoming, he stands and crosses his arms over his chest. Castiel feels silly sitting, so he follows suit. 

"Why the hell not?"

"I don't believe I am the best resource to help you." There. It's truthful without being the truth. 

Something akin to desperation crosses Dean's features. "You are. Of course you are. What are you talking about, Cas?" He takes a step towards him and rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in a move Castiel has witnessed when Dean is aggravated or upset. He loathes to think he's the reason behind Dean's distress, but he can't quit now. Not when this is the right thing to do.

"There are many qualified tutors I can recommend who can continue with you. Let me write their phone numbers." Cas turns to find a pencil and paper only to have a strong grip on his arm yank him back around. Dean's close, much too close, and the plain hurt in his eyes breaks Castiel's heart. 

"Did I do something wrong? I'll...I'll work harder. I know I haven't been giving the assignments a hundred percent, but I can start. I'll ask Bobby for longer breaks at work to study. I'll take better notes. Please, Cas. Don't give up on me yet," Dean pleads, and tears well in Castiel's eyes. He hates this. How can Dean think this is his fault? He might be loud and brash and disorganized, but he's perfect. He explains the joke when Castiel doesn't understand and teases him about his hair. He's too charming, too easygoing to be believed, and Castiel's drive to know what's behind the devil-may-care persona is another reason to distance himself. 

"I have to," Castiel whispers. 

"Why?" Dean demands. His hand is still on Castiel's shoulder, searing into him. Dean's so close. He can see the flecks of jade and hazel in his eyes, memorize the freckles sprinkled across his nose in fine detail. His gaze drops to Dean's lips, pink and soft and so damnably  _close_. Dean wants to know why? 

Cas bridges the remaining distance and kisses Dean. His lips taste like beer and mint, and his body is hard against Castiel's. Castiel wants to open his mouth, touch Dean's hair, slide his hands under his shirt, but it hasn't escaped his attention that Dean's lips are unresponsive beneath his. 

Horrified, Castiel pushes away from Dean. He can't bring himself to look at him, fixing on a lopsided wall hook on the far right while he mumbles, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," in a litany of regret. 

When Castiel can't take the silence anymore, he forces his gaze to Dean. Instead of the disgust Castiel is expecting, Dean's expression is conflicted, too many emotions battling for control. His hands are curled into fists at his sides. He meets Castiel's eyes and swallows. A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I can't," he whispers. He moves toward Castiel and stops. "I can't." His gaze drops to Castiel's mouth and holds. 

"I fucking can't," he growls.

Then he pushes Castiel against the wall and slants his mouth over his. 

 

 

 

THE PRESENT

 

**Castiel**

Something interrupts Castiel's nightmare, yanking him into consciousness. He's lying on the couch, half his limbs dangling onto the carpet in the uncomfortable position he passed out in. The chipped ceramic mug on the table holds cold coffee he made with the hope that it would drain away his lethargy and listlessness. It's cold now, and a dead fruit fly floats on the surface. Castiel doesn't know how he keeps getting fruit flies when he never eats fruit, but it depresses him each time he finds their dead bodies. This one's wings are spread wide, keeping it afloat even in death. 

A hard knock startles him. Someone's at the door. It's nearly midnight, too late for any visitors. Especially since Castiel doesn't get visitors, except Gabriel. 

Gabriel. Typical. He is incapable of leaving well enough alone, and has come to check on Castiel again. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, Castiel heaves to his feet and stumbles to the door. He considers telling Gabriel to leave through the wood, but it might irritate his neighbors if his brother argues. Which, naturally, he will. 

He undoes the chain from the door and pulls it open, prepared to show Gabriel he hasn't thrown himself off the roof and go back to sleep. 

But it's not Gabriel standing behind his threshold, wearing a beat-up leather jacket over his flannel shirt and tapping anxious fingers against his thigh. 

Castiel goes ashen. His first instinct is to slam the door and bolt it, push his desk and couch and everything else in front of it. He doesn't. Instead, he stands stock still and stares at Dean. 

"I know this is a douche move. You made it pretty clear you wanted nothing to do with me last night. I don't know why I'm here," Dean murmurs. Castiel isn't certain whether the last past is meant for him to hear. 

_Close the door. Close the door._

 His heart thunders in his chest, beating wildly against his ribs. Is he still asleep? Is this some new flavor of nightmare? 

"How did you find me?" Castiel asks flatly. 

Dean jumps slightly, as if he wasn't expecting Castiel to speak. "Uh, I'm a cop. One of the perks is smoking people out pretty quick."

"You abused your power to invade my privacy?"

"When you put it like that..."

"I could report you."

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. "You could."

Castiel wants to ask why he would risk it. Their history leaves no doubt that Castiel is reactive; if attacked, he isn't afraid to go on the offensive and draw blood. On the other side of the door, Dean is trying to fake calm. Castiel is irritated to discover that the years have not made him any less attune to Dean's body language, or dulled his urge to comfort the emotionally stunted man. 

Dean's sighs, drawn and weary. "This was a bad idea. I just wanted to check that you were okay. You know, after last night."

The fact that Dean had aided Castiel in defusing his panic attack sits sour in his stomach. He would owe Dean Winchester no favors, and if his repaying the inexplicable kindness means allowing him this victory...

Stepping aside, Castiel wordlessly gestures for Dean to enter. Shock transforms to elation, and then a booted foot clomps over his threshold and into his sanctuary.

 

**Dean**

He's inside Cas's apartment, and it's nothing like what he thought it would be. 

College Cas was tidy and meticulous to a maddening point. It used to bring Dean endless amusement to entice Cas to have sex on a blanket on a floor, against a window, on the cramped kitchen counter (an idea Dean had immediately regretted when a fork speared his left nipple). Cas would Lysol-wipe the shit out of the place afterwards. 

This apartment...Dean's having a tough time believing Cas actually lives here. There's a cracked mug resting on a coffee table with circular mug prints staining the wood. _Is that a friggin' insect floating in there?_ Dean takes in the cluttered desk in the corner, the armchair with more stuffing on the outside than contained within the straining green fabric. 

"Nice place you got here," he lies. 

Cas's only answer is a disbelieving snort. "I'd prefer you avoid lying. I know it's second nature to you, but I'm a grown man. This is not a nice place."

Dean bristles, a spiteful reply on the tip of this tongue before he thinks better of it. He has to wrestle his anger down to answer, "And I'd prefer you avoid being a flaming jackass."

They glare at each other. Cas is the first to drop it, rubbing his temples and demanding wearily, "Why are you here, Dean?"

Million dollar question, ain't it? He's always the man with a plan, but he's driving on an empty tank right now. "I told you. I wanted to make sure you were okay after your bender."

Cas snorts. "That wasn't a bender. It was hardly a Friday night."

Is he joking? No, Dean knows when Cas is trying to joke and this isn't it. This is dead serious, and Dean finds himself studying Cas in a new, clinical light. There are dark circles under his eyes that look worse than any Dean suffered through Sammy's childhood, and the deathly pale pallor of his skin makes him seem paper thin and fragile. The crystalline blue eyes that narrow on him are bloodshot. "What?"

Sorrow settles over Dean like a familiar blanket. _What happened to you, Cas?_ "You look like shit."

Cas's laugh is short and humorless. He picks up the mug with the dead thing swirling in it. "Well, I did tell you not to lie."

Trying for levity, Dean cracks, "Careful what you wish for." Cas disappears around the counter, and when he returns, the mug is gone. He wipes his hands on a pair of holey sweatpants that shouldn't look as good as they do on him. 

"You taught me that lesson a long time ago."

Christ, he's not pulling any punches, is he? Dean doesn't acknowledge the dig, wandering over to the desk and open computer. There's a document titled, 'DRAFT' with only the line 'get a new job' written on the blank page. He only gets a brief glance, because Cas slams the laptop shut and glowers. "Proceed to the couch, please."

Someone's testy. Draft of what? Dean wants to ask, but Cas might bite his head off. He drops on the couch, and after a pause that has Dean wondering if Cas will maintain his sentinel position by the door, Cas drops into the overly burdened armchair.

After a beat, Cas frowns. "I'm not going to offer you something to drink."

Dean tries not to smile. "That's fair." Given that there's only a limited amount of time until Cas kicks him out, Dean decides to give it a go. "Why do you need a new job? Old one ain't cutting it?" 

It's the wrong question. Cas's expression immediately shutters, going smooth and impassive. There's only thing that makes Cas go distant like that, and it's his writing. In college, he'd witnessed Cas check out time and time again whenever the subject came up, no matter how tentatively. 

"I'm not discussing my livelihood with you."

"What are you gonna discuss with me, then? 'Cause a conversation's a two-way street, buddy."

"I'm not your _buddy_ ," Cas grinds out derisively. "And you're the one who violated the law to come here. Say your piece and leave. Get whatever closure you need to trot off into the sunset with a clear conscience."

It's getting harder and harder to keep a lid on his temper. "At least I'm trying to be civil. It's been five years, Cas."

"I wasn't aware hate had an expiration date," he hisses.

Dean goes still. Hate? Cas...hates him? He knew Cas was vengeful, angry, betrayed. But never did it cross Dean's mind that Cas could hate him. Despite the havoc Cas had caused Dean, he'd never hated him. It went against his chemical makeup, the very grain of his being.

This is bullshit. He needs to leave, needs to get away from this bitter shadow of a man, this wasteland of a home. He deserves Cas's hate because all of this is his fault. His fault for being a fucking coward. For dragging Cas down with him when he offered Dean a hand into the light. He already can't look himself in the eye, and any longer here and he won't be able to get up in the morning. 

Cas doesn't say a thing when Dean gets up and skirts the coffee table. He's silent when Dean fumbles with the lock on the door three times before hearing a click. 

It's only when Dean's halfway out the door that Cas's voice, deep and resentful and so  _fucking_ tired, drifts after him. 

"This isn't your fault, Dean. I'm not your fault."

Dean shuts the door gently behind him, knowing it's Cas who's lied this time, whether he knows it or not. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: "Train Wreck" by James Arthur.  
> "Not ready to die, not yet...underneath our bad blood, we've still got a sad song...still a home here."

Chapter 5

SIX YEARS AGO

**Dean**

When he gets to Cas's place, there's no one home. He checks his watch and grimaces. Cas is still in Medical Anthropology, a class he'd audited for no reason other than to indulge his weird fascination with the world. Unlike Dean, he doesn't think they're all cogs in some cosmic machine, cranking away until their untimely death. Cas has faith in humanity, and Dean doesn't know whether to be envious, or to pity him. 

Dean tosses his backpack onto the table and collapses onto the couch. His muscles are sore as hell from football practice. The team is a front, a way for the university to show it's interests go beyond the arts. All Dean really has to do is show up and not suck. And since the gym is walking distance from Cas's apartment, it's made life pretty damn sweet.

He tosses an arm over his face, muffling his chuckle into his sleeve. It's only been a few weeks since he and Cas started this...thing, this bizarre, friggin' fantastic thing. A year of being tutored by Cas only to start staring at his lips mid-session, watching him wet them with nervous swipes of his tongue or chew the corner when he's grading Dean's papers. Frankly, it's a miracle he didn't fail out of his classes, since all he could ever think about was his reserved, intense, sexy tutor and the many things Dean wanted from him that didn't involve a grade. When Cas finally kissed him, it yanked the rug right out from under him, rocking him to the very core. Since then, he's feasted on that mouth whenever the chance arose, but Cas never let him get further. 

Today, Dean plans to seduce him. He knows Cas wants him; he has physical proof any time Dean's lying on top of him, fingers buried in that wild mane of dark hair Dean loves so much. But any time Dean travels anywhere south of the border, Cas pulls back with a breathless excuse and busies himself cooking dinner or working on homework. Is it because he's scared? Dean gets it. Hell, this is a whole new ball game for him, too. Until he met Cas, he'd been solidly into chicks. At least, that's what he thought. He'd gotten so accustomed to chalking up his appreciation for the male form as drunken delusion or misfiring hormones that he'd been completely blindsided when he met Cas and his lungs gave out. He'd tried to fuck it out of his system, going through a significant chunk of the university's female population, but it only made him feel oddly guilty. And it never worked. He was still gone for Cas in every way. 

The jingle of keys alerts Dean to Cas's entrance. He moves his arm and props himself up on his elbows to watch Cas hang his beloved trench coat on the hook. He's not surprised when he spots Dean. He smiles widely at him, a private smile that only Dean gets to see because it's reserved just for him. 

Yep, he's completely gone for the bastard. 

"How was class?" Dean asks. He sits up, making room for Cas to sit. When he does, taking a seat a few feet away, Dean shakes his head and reels Cas in so his back is against Dean's chest. He buries his nose in Cas's hair and murmurs, "That's better."

Cas sinks into Dean, turning his face so he's blinking up at him. "Class was good." 

Uh-oh. Cas usually prattles on for at least twenty minutes about what he learned while Dean feigns interest and draws patterns on his skin. Dean lays a hand on Cas's jaw when he tries to turn away, compelling him to meet Dean's gaze. "What's wrong?"

Cas chews on the corner of his bottom lip. Dean brushes his thumb against Cas's abused lip and raises his brows. "Stop that. You'll bleed. I like this mouth."

"I met with your adviser," Cas says in a rush. 

Dean's brows furrow. "Okay. And? Don't you have to meet with him twice a semester anyway?"

Cas slides his hand to Dean's knee and holds on, as if worried Dean will buck him off. "I recommended we end your tutoring sessions."

"What? Why?" Shit. Is this Cas's way of dumping him? Dean starts pulling away, but it's Cas who grabs him this time, turning so he's sitting on Dean's lap, cradling Dean's face in his hands. 

"Wait, let me finish," he pleads. "I did it for us. So there will be one less obstacle preventing our relationship from progressing."

Now Dean's just confused. "How's tutoring an obstacle?"

"It's wrong, ethically speaking. I can't continue to accept payment from the school for spending half the session teaching you and the other half..." He blushes. Although Dean's still wary of this conversation, he can't resist reaching out to trail his fingers along Cas's jaw. Cas is ridiculously noble, with more integrity in this little finger than Dean's got in summed up. He's dropping Dean as a student so they can explore whatever this is without guilt. Or at least, without guilt on Cas's part.  

Cas captures Dean's hand on his jaw, raising it to his mouth and dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses along Dean's knuckles. 

Heat tears through Dean, and he twists abruptly so Cas is lying back on the couch, Dean's body flush against his. Dean nips and licks his way down Cas's throat, only stopping to unbutton Cas's shirt. He smooths his hands reverently against Cas's chest, feeling his stomach muscles jump when Dean's fingers track his mouthwatering happy trail. There isn't an inch of Cas he plans to leave untouched, untasted. 

Cas moans his name when Dean covers Cas's nipple with his tongue, sucking on the tight nub until Cas is a writhing mess beneath him. He's moving to give the other one some love when Cas suddenly rolls, dislodging Dean's leg and falling in a heap on the carpet. Dean quickly catches himself before he face-plants into the armrest. 

Scrambling to his feet, Cas is back to gnawing on his lip. With shaky hands, he buttons his shirt, leaving it crooked on one end. Dean gets his body under control before speaking. He tries to be gentle, but his frustration leaks through. 

"What gives, Cas? If you're not ready, tell me. I'm not an asshole, you know. I won't rush you. But if there's something else, just give it to me straight. Talk to me, man."

To Dean's utter astonishment, Cas laughs. He covers his mouth as soon as the sound escapes, wide-eyed and frozen. But then it happens again, and before Dean can pull his thumb out of his ass and ask Cas if he's having some kind of seizure, Cas is on the floor, roaring with laughter. Perplexed, Dean kneels beside him, an automatic half-smile already fixed in place. 

"Wanna let me in on the joke?"

"You...said...straight," Cas gasps out, then dissolves into another fit of hilarity, rocking on the carpet. Dean scowls and considers smacking him out of his fit. 

"And?"

"And that's the joke! You're a straight man, trying on gay for a day. I can't touch you, I can't kiss you, without worrying that today will be the day you slap me on the shoulder, thank me for the ride, and forget I ever existed."

Dean rocks back on his heels, stunned. Gay for a day? What the actual fuck? "Are you kidding me? You think-wow. Good to know what you really think of me."

Cas sits up and crawls over to Dean. His laughter is gone, replaced with a mixture of resignation and hunger. He shoves Dean, knocking him back against the carpet. "What I think of you isn't relevant, Dean. I think the world of you."

He climbs Dean's body, fumbling with his shirt and the button of his jeans with wild need. Baffled, Dean willingly shucks his shirt, at the mercy of Cas's adventurous hands, exploring Dean with fervor. Dean knows he should stop this, cut it off at the pass. There's clearly shit they need to work out, but Cas feels so damn  _good_ , and when his mouth replaces his hands on Dean's body, the last of Dean's resistance vaporizes. 

"It's what you think of yourself that's the problem," Cas whispers in Dean's ear, just before he covers Dean's mouth with his own, silencing them both.

 

PRESENT

**Dean**

"Aniston or Lawrence?" Benny asks. 

"Aniston."

"Aniston or Lopez?"

"Lopez," Dean returns, scowling at the unopened mail on his desk. Today has felt like a century, and he's not even done with work yet. Sometimes he truly regrets leaving the action as a corporal to become assistant chief. He misses patrols with Jo, misses when paperwork was the secondary part of his job. If he hadn't arranged for Jo to be partnered with Benny, he'd have been too worried to send her out with any random uniform. When he mentioned this to her, she'd taken a swing at him. 

"Sharon Stone or-" Benny continues, only for Dean to cut him off with a wave. 

"Don't you have work to be doing?"

Benny props his feet up on Dean's desk, much to Dean's irritation. "I'm on break. Gotta admit, I'm worried about you."

Dean digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing until it stings. "Why? 'Fraid I might fire you?" he mutters, remaining slumped against the chair. He didn't get a lick of sleep all weekend, and Benny's not helping his shitty mood. All he wants to do is get into his baby and go for a drive, a long drive with nothing but the wind and the hum of the engine to keep him company. But instead he gets to be here, strapped to his desk and rating Jennifers. 

"I'm serious," Benny sighs. "Last few days, you been out of it. You got a temper, brother, but it ain't fair to take it out on us. You got the whole station tiptoeing around you."

Dean snorts. "Not my fault you're a bunch of pansies."

"I'm saying you need to leave your shit at home. It don't belong at work."

At wit's end, Dean slams his palms flat on the desk and glares."I'm your boss, not the other way around. Get your nose out of my business and leave me the fuck alone."

Shaking his head in disgust, Benny slams the door on his way out, shaking the frame of Dean and Sammy on Dean's desk. Dean has a moment of regret before settling back into his gloom. He's not blind. He's been barking and shouting at anyone who so much as looked at him funny since he saw Cas four days ago. It's reached the point where he's avoiding Sam like the plague just to keep his bitterness from infecting the soon-to-be-weds happiness. There's only a week and a half left to the wedding, and Dean's praying he can cram his head out of his ass by then. 

_It's not your fault. I'm not your fault._

Cursing, Dean shoves off his chair and grabs his keys. Screw this. He needs to get out of his head, one way or another. 

 

 

 

"You idiot," Sam grunts. He fumbles with the keys to Dean's house, cursing when he drops the chain. "Why do you have so many freaking keys?"

"'Cause I'm the heat, Sammy," Dean slurs. He's leaning heavily against Sam, for once glad his brother is a freak of nature and can support his weight. "Do ya think I should get a plant to put outside? People do that, right?"

"Shut up." Sam finally succeeds in fitting the correct key in the lock and pushes the door open, heaving Dean inside. He kicks the door shut behind them, and together they limp to Dean's bedroom, where Sam dumps Dean onto the mattress. Dean's head smacks against the headboard, but he's too liquored up to do more than wince. 

"You smell like cheap perfume and booze," Sam snaps, yanking Dean's boots off with more force than necessary. "I hope you're happy. The Impala's parked in front of a dodgy strip club because you're too much of a basket case to talk about your problems like an adult."

Alarm flickers at the mention of his baby, but he's too drained to stoke the embers. Whatever. He'll go get it in the morning. And the strip club is only dodgy to Mr. Bay Area. "You sound like Benny," Dean groans, struggling out of his jacket. He only succeeds in tangling it around his elbows and falling face-first into his pillow. 

The jacket is tugged free, and Sam rolls Dean onto his side. He crouches by the bed and exhales, frustrated. "Don't you think it should tell you something that Benny and me are on the same page?"

"Yeah. You both need to get your own lives." Dean yawns. Sam's right; the smell of cheap, overly fragrant perfume clings to his clothes, seeping through his pores. When he'd left the station, he'd had no intention of going to a strip club. He only wanted to drive, to get away from Cas's defeated voice and how it transports him to another time, to a different version of himself. 

Or maybe it's the same version. After all, what's changed? Cas left Dean because was afraid to love him, love him in the way Cas deserved to be loved. He deserved a guy who would take him out and kiss him and introduce him to his family. A guy who'd acknowledge his existence outside the four doors of their private paradise. Now Cas  _hates him_ , and Dean doesn't know why he's so shocked. He'd thought Cas would move on from him just fine. After all, it's him whose wrong. It's him who needs the fixing. Not Cas. Cas doesn't deserve to look like he's lived a thousand lifetimes of misery. 

Sam's eyes, identical to John's in this light, soften with a kindness that's solely Mary's. "Do you want to talk about it?"

To Dean's horror, he almost blurts out,  _yes._ Yes, he wants to talk about Cas. He wants to come clean about the man who fucked Dean up so badly he'd spent six months crashing on Bobby's couch, only waking up to work in the garage, mail the money to Sam, and go back to sleep. His life had been a fog of misery, and he wouldn't open up to Bobby or Sam, no matter how hard they tried. How would he begin to explain Cas without revealing what a jelly-spined fuckwit he was? 

"I messed up, Sammy," he whispers, a single tear spilling down into his hair. "I messed up bad."

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. Let me help you, Dean. Please."

Dean manages a weak smile as his eyes drift shut. Poor Jess; there's no way Sam's not sleeping on the couch tonight to make sure Dean doesn't choke on his own vomit. As feared, he's let his own issues ruin Sam's peace. Ruin and regret, the only two things Dean excels at. Sam can't help him. No one can. He's a lost cause.

"I'll be fine," Dean says, and as the darkness rushes to sweep him under, he lets himself believe that maybe someday it'll be true. 

 

**Castiel**

He lied again.

That makes twice in his lifetime, and both to Dean, both  _about_ Dean. Dean's crushed expression has haunted him since. He'd been devastated, and it hadn't brought Castiel any pleasure. If he hates Dean, shouldn't he revel in his misery? Shouldn't he have felt vindicated in delivering the debilitating blow? 

All he feels is sick. 

He hasn't had a drop to drink in four days, and it hasn't gone unnoticed by Gabriel, who makes it a habit to check the contents of Castiel's fridge routinely. Even though it's late, Gabriel clearly isn't willing to let it go.

"Not that I'm complaining, but why the sudden dry spell? Is it because of...the club? Seeing that dickweed?"

"Don't call him that," Castiel responds automatically. "And no. I'm having trouble writing, and I thought sobriety might help."

"Has it?"

"No." If anything, it's only made him more incapable of mastering the skills of narrative. 

"You know what might help? Letting me read one of your books, maybe telling me what your pen name is."

Castiel doesn't grace that with a reply. He picks up the paperback he'd left on the coffee table and pretends to read, hoping Gabriel will take the hint. Naturally, he doesn't. "Fine. I won't judge if it's porno, fyi. But let's get back to ass-munch."

"Stop calling him names," Castiel orders, aggressively flipping the page. 

"Stop defending him and I will."

"I'm not defending him. It's just rude."

"Rude to trash talk the guy who broke your heart? Who made you miss your own college graduation?" Gabriel's volume increases, a rarity. Passion isn't an emotion Gabriel displays often, and Castiel is touched that this time, it's on his behalf. Laying the book back down, he sits forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. 

"What happened with Dean is in the past. I appreciate your concern, but it's unfounded. I've experienced very few of the classic symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, I'm eating, and I'm sleeping. I am alright, Gabriel. I promise. Dean is...not a factor."

Gabriel studies Castiel as if he hopes to uncover the truth through the sheer power of his gaze. Guilt assaults Castiel. Gabriel is only a few years older than Castiel, but he acts like his father. Their brothers are spread across the globe, each of them having left home as soon as they could to get far away from their father. Only Gabriel stayed, caring for Castiel when their father would vanish by the month, leaving a teenage Castiel to fend for himself. Although Gabriel would never admit to it, Castiel suspects part of the reason he chose Los Angeles to start his business was because of him.

"If it's alright, I would like to, uh, watch the sports game with you this weekend," Castiel says, hoping there's actually a sports game on. He's not certain what programming for athletics is.

If Gabriel is taken aback, he masks it quickly. "You don't own a TV."

"I could go to your house. If that's okay."

There's no hiding Gabriel's shock this time. It can't be blamed, since Castiel hasn't been to Gabriel's home since his last visit three years ago. Gabriel came to tour the apartment with Castiel and panicked, shouting at Castiel that he was going to die in this neighborhood, that it was a terrible decision and he should simply live with Gabriel. Castiel had bristled under the command. He was not someone who took to orders well, and Gabriel had learned the lesson when Castiel had refused any subsequent invitations to his home.

Gabriel clears his throat a few times before answering. "Of course it's okay. It'll be great to have you." Affection for Castiel is heavy in Gabriel's tone, and it baffles Castiel. Why hasn't Gabriel given up yet? This is the first time Castiel has shown any interest in life outside of his apartment, outside of his work. As much as he wants to blurt out the question, he doesn't. Sometimes, it's best not to know the answers. 

"By the way, it's not a 'sports game'. Just a game. And did you have any sport in mind? I'll watch anything except golf. Oh, and swimming. Wait, tennis, too. Anything that involves shorts or genital-disfiguring uniforms," Gabriel lists, and Castiel stifles his smile. 

"How about football?" he interjects, disrupting Gabriel's tirade on the monstrosities of beach volleyball.

"Football? Sure. Got any team you're rooting for?"

An image of a young Dean being lifted into the air by his teammates after scoring the winning touchdown against their rival campus flits across Castiel's memory. He'd gone to watch Dean play and hated every second of watching players slam into him, knocking him to the floor or shoving against him. Dean could more than hold his own, but Castiel had chewed his lip bloody that day. He's not sure what the team's name was, and it's what enables him to answer Gabriel honestly. 

"Nothing comes to mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any of you guys follow 'mishaleckis' on Twitter? Her edits are soul-crushing in the best possible way. Also, I apologize for any mistakes, I tend to write at 3 am and edit later.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: "Arsonists Lullaby" by Hozier  
> "All you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach. Don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep them on a leash."

Chapter Six

**Dean**

"Did you get the dental records on Jane Doe?" Dean asks, tapping a frenetic rhythm with his pen. 

Jo flashes a thumbs-up. "Yep. Getting them matched as we speak."

"And cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head?"

"Right."

A homicide. It's the third this week, all with the same MO. So far, there's been no connection between the deaths, but Dean's got a gut feeling that there's more to it than mere coincidence. "Let me know when you hear back."

"You got it." Despite the obvious dismissal, she stays put, arms crossed over her chest and brows pulled together. 

 _Jesus. Here comes the lecture._ And he's not wrong. Jo shuffles inside and scrutinizes Dean as if she can peel him back layer by layer, like a particularly foul onion. "Sam mentioned you went to a strip club last night."

Of course Sam told her. Why wouldn't he? The two became friends while Dean was partnered with Jo, and it seems Sam's tattling days aren't behind him. "You jealous?"

Jo's nostrils flare, warning him that he's toeing the line. "I'm not into self-destructive jackasses."

Dean grits his teeth, reigning in his urge to lash out. He's better than this, damn it. This is Jo. He trusts her with his life. "I went to a strip club. Last I checked, that ain't a crime. Why are you and Sam making this bigger than it is?"

Jo hesitates. Her expression goes from uncertain to cautious. "Was it a female strip club?"

Dean freezes. His grip is too tight on the pen; it bends between his fingers. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what."

Lips pulled back into a snarl, Dean bites, "Spell it out for me, Joanna." 

Straightening her shoulders, Jo hooks her thumb into her gun holster and shakes her head. "I respectfully decline, Lieutenant Winchester. I may be your friend, but you're my commanding officer."

Dean leans back in his chair, regarding Jo with concern and residual anger. "You think I'd fire you because you hurt my feelings? Don't play that card."

"I have to get back to work, sir," Jo says blandly, and Dean's left watching her rigid back march out of his office. He's relieved, but he can't help wondering what she was going to say. Why would she specify  _female_ strip club as if Dean would go to any other? Does she suspect...no. How could she? Dean hasn't stepped out of line once since Cas. It's been Titsville since college. 

Dean shakes his head, returning to his files, firm in his belief that she doesn't know jack. His only secret has blue eyes and a messy black hair, and God knows he went to the ends of the earth to bury that. 

 

**Castiel**

"I was not warned."

"I didn't think it was relevant. You're being a baby."

"Does it have eyelids? Why isn't it blinking?"

Gabriel carries the feline off the ottoman and lifts her towards Castiel. "See? She's a sweetheart. C'mon, hold her."

Castiel and the cat don't blink, and Castiel is certainly not about to carry the clawed beast. With a groan, Gabriel drops it to the ground. It circles Castiel's legs, hisses, then skulks down the hall. A smart tactic, considering Castiel was briefly tempted to kick it straight through the window.

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel returns to the kitchen, where he'd been in the midst of preparing dinner before Castiel had discovered the hell mammal and capsized a bowl of mashed potatoes. He opens the oven and peers at his eggplant dish. Apparently satisfied with the crispy surface, he turns off the oven and uses floral mitts to remove the tray. "Can you grab some plates and forks and put 'em on the coffee table?"

"Not the dining table?"

"Nah, we can watch the game while we eat."

Right. The sports game. Castiel does as instructed, setting a place for him and his brother in front of the television. He prays he doesn't spill ground beef or eggplant onto Gabriel's white leather sectional or his Turkish rug. His brother's entire home is immaculately polished, from the sparkling diamond chandelier falling from the high-rise ceiling, to the frosted glass doors leading into the balcony. The second he'd hung up his trench coat at the door, he'd felt out of place in his dark-washed jeans and blue sweater. It's Castiel's nicer ensemble, but there are loose threads all over the sweater, and he's begun to wear a hole at the knee of his jeans. It didn't matter when he was wearing the trench coat, but he's naked without it. 

Gabriel uses a heat pad to set the eggplant dish onto the table and scrape what's salvageable of the mashed potatoes into a bowl. "Would you like something to drink?" he asks, and the question is unusually stiff. It doesn't take Castiel long to decipher why, and he's emphatic when he replies, "Just water. Thank you."

Shoulders slightly more relaxed, Gabriel returns with two waters. He switches on the sports game while Castiel scoops food onto his plate, the mouthwatering aroma reaching his belly. It's been much too long since he was has eaten a proper meal. The baked eggplant and ground beef are seasoned to perfection, and Castiel eats half the tray before he can stop long enough to say, "This is delicious, Gabriel. You have outdone yourself."

Gabriel nods absently, watching Castiel devour the meal with vigor. "I'm glad you like it."

When Castiel's stomach is full to the point of discomfort, he insists on cleaning up, washing the plates and refrigerating the leftovers in plastic containers. He has no doubt Gabriel will attempt to force him to take those home later. This time, Castiel might accept the offer. 

"The 49'ers are eating dirt," Gabriel updates him. They watch players in colored uniforms running around on Gabriel's massive flat-screen, and it takes Castiel to a different game. 

_"Woo! Go Badgers!" the gaggle of parents and students next to him cheer. They're on their feet, and so is Castiel, but not for the same reason. He's avidly tracking Dean's number on the field, cringing each time he tackles an opposing player or receives the ball that has everyone making a beeline for him. At this moment, he's sprinting towards the white line beneath the large Y-shaped pole. Castiel's heart races as player after player shoves, kicks, or otherwise flies at Dean. But the second Dean crosses the white line, the auditorium is in chaos, Castiel's side of the stands screeching in victory._

_"Winchester! Winchester!" they chant. Dean is lifted onto the shoulders of his teammates. He pulls off his helmet and tucks it under his arm. His eyes find Castiel, but only for a second. Then he's back on his feet, arms thrown around two cheerleaders and howling with his buddies._

"It's a cheese commercial."

Castiel blinks and finds that the game has changed to a commercial on Parmesan cheese. He shrugs, aiming a wobbly smile at Gabriel. "I'm fascinated by all things dairy."

"Was that a joke? Be still my heart." Gabriel clutches his chest and pretends to faint back on the couch. "I can die happy."

Castiel sits up, alarmed. "Are you sick?" He's still not well-versed in Gabriel's brand of humor.

"No, it-never mind. What were you thinking about?" Gabriel's shrewd gaze settles on Castiel, as if he already knows the answer but wants to be proven right. It's been five days without a single mention of Dean, and Gabriel is obviously waiting for Castiel to panic. To throw things and scream and curse, or at the very least to acknowledge the unpleasant interaction that occurred at the club. He's a psychiatrist; he think he knows how everyone's mind works and the proper reaction for every action. 

What he doesn't know is Castiel did react. He is still reacting, still plagued with the thoughts and memories he'd stored for his subconscious. Now it's all in the forefront of his mind, assaulting him at every turn. Dean is everywhere he turns. It's him in Castiel's dreams, his body arching greedily beneath Castiel, his mouth sneering as it pours out lie after lie to aggressively defend his heterosexuality, his hair Cas is yanking back as he drives into Dean from behind, each thrust more punishing, more furiously forceful than the last. 

He'd used his body to punish Dean and only ended up hurting himself. 

Gabriel is still waiting for an answer. For once, Castiel is relieved when the sports game returns. "I was thinking about football." He focuses on the game and pretends he doesn't feel Gabriel's stare on him for the remainder of the night. 

 

**Dean**

"Jess is going to kill you," Sam says conversationally. "I'm gonna have an imprisoned fiance."

"Good thing you're a lawyer." Dean regrets not bringing a flask. He could have made a game of all these lectures he's getting. At this rate, he'd be plastered within the hour. It's nine, and Dean's missed yet another dinner with Sam and Jess. Instead of leaving him a pissy voicemail like a normal person, Sam's taken it upon himself to personally visit Dean to illustrate the creative and unsettling ways Jess is planning his demise. 

Sam scowls. "I ran into Benny outside. He told me Jo was pretty upset when he saw her."

A lance of guilt makes Dean grimace. Yeah, he's got to apologize to Jo sometime tomorrow. He's not quite sure for what, but he can't have her walking around upset because of his sorry hide. "Why're you here, Sammy? I've got work to do."

It's stretching the truth, since Dean's been unusually productive this week. The only things left on his desk are the homicides, and they aren't technically his cases. He could have made dinner if he'd really wanted to. But the thought of having Sam and Jess teaming up to pry into his life soured his stomach, so he ate dinner on his desk and made up another excuse. 

Leave it to Sammy to track him down anyway. "I'm here because I'm worried about you, Dean. Jo tells me you've been staying late all week, and then there's yesterday's disaster."

Dean rubs his temples. "Why's everyone making such a big stink about a fucking strip club? You'd think I sacrificed a puppy or something."

"Does this have something to do with the guy at the bar? The one in the trench coat?"

For the second time that day, Dean's insides turn to ice. He doesn't dare move. Sammy's too good at reading him, too adept at sniffing out when Dean's lying. He clears his throat, mastering his features into smooth blankness. "What guy?" 

"The one you dragged off the dance floor. Looked like he was having a seizure or something. Did you know him?" 

"Nah," Dean answers, the ice in his veins turning to poison, pumping straight into his heart. "He was freaking out so I took him to get some air. Just being a good Samaritan."

Years later, and it's the same lies, the same slimy taste in his mouth after he casts aside Cas like he's nothing. 

Sam isn't John. John is dead, but Dean's fear didn't die with him. Each time Dean pulled away from Cas, it grew, feeding off Dean's insecurities and the part of him that thinks that Cas was a fluke. That the craving, the blind need for Cas was an exception to the rule. He wouldn't have to admit to himself that maybe for all the reasons Cas was special, him being a man wasn't one. 

While Sam speculates about why Dean's two shakes short of a loony bin, Dean flips through the autopsy reports on the first two homicides. The first is a sixteen-year-old girl, a short little thing with scabs at the flap of her elbow that the medic speculated was her main passage for drug injection. They'd found her lying in a pool of her own blood behind a sketchy tattoo parlor. The second guy was in his mid-forties and a reputable tax consultant, found dead amidst an old woman's rhododendrons. Both had their skulls crushed in from the back.

"Are you listening to me?" Sam snaps. "I'm not just here to look pretty."

"I'd hope not." Once Dean gets the file on the third vic, maybe these deaths will make more sense. Contrary to popular belief, most cases are less like a puzzle to be pieced together and more like a story, fitting together chapter by chapter. 

A story. 

"I need a storyteller," Dean says, interrupting whatever new sermon his brother was working on. Sam brow ticks upward, but Dean doesn't elaborate, too busy tossing the case files in a leather folder and grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. When Sammy remains seated, watching Dean as if he's officially lost it, Dean punches his arm. "Move it, princess. I'm locking up."

"Are you going home?" Sam asks hopefully. "What did I say to convince you?"

Dean takes in Sam's puppy-like relief and tosses his arm around his brother's shoulders as they walk down the halls of the station. "The part where you said I'm a dumbass."

"That doesn't narrow it down."

Snorting, Dean waits until Sammy's safely in his car and waving at him as he drives to his beautiful girl and his steady home. Dean slides into the driver's seat of the Impala and revs the engine. Sammy might be a pain in his ass, but it's only because he somehow managed to dodge the gene that turns Winchester men dark. That shapes love into something ugly and dangerous. The same gene that possessed John after Mary's death. John would go on benders, leaving Sammy in Dean's incapable hands. Dean did his best. He would stay up all night, randomly sticking his finger underneath Sammy's nose to make sure he was still breathing or go downstairs to hunt for any money he could use to buy food the next day. Dean would never forget the first time Sam got a fever. He was so pale, so weak. He refused food, no matter how much Dean begged. He'd thrown up when Dean tried to force him to eat. Dean had called Bobby, Dad's friend who'd hung around after Mary's funeral for a few days to comfort John and keep an eye on the boys.

Bobby bought Sammy the meds he needed and went out to drag John's drunken ass back home. Dean had sat at the foot of Sammy's bed, waking him up every few hours to take his temperature and give him some water to hydrate. When Sammy's fever broke in the early hours of the morning, Dean had cried and fallen into a dead sleep on the floor, the thermometer clutched tight in his hand.  

No, Sam doesn't have the gene, because he's nothing like John Winchester. 

Dean wishes he could say the same for himself. 

 

**Castiel**

As predicted, when Gabriel drops him off at the doorstep of his building, he shoves a bag filled with food containers at Castiel. He's braced for Castiel to argue and is thrown for a loop when Castiel simply accepts the bag and smiles his thanks. "I enjoyed dinner. Thank you."

"Yeah, me too. My door's always open for you, Castiel. You know that, right?"

"I do," Castiel replies slowly. At least, he's beginning too. 

Gabriel winks and makes a shooing motion at Castiel. "Now get out of my car."

With a laugh, Castiel complies, bidding his brother goodnight and entering his building. He rounds the short stairwell to his floor, not bothered by the cigarette butts or layers of dust on the floor like he normally is. The bag is strangely heavy, and Castiel is checking it suspiciously to make sure the feline didn't somehow sneak in when he hears a throat clear. 

He goes still, halting a few feet from his apartment door. He knows before he lifts his head what sight awaits him, and he's not wrong. 

Dean shifts on his feet and aims a lopsided grin at Castiel.

"Heya, Cas."

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: "I Found" by Amber Run  
> "And I've moved further than I thought I could...but I missed you more than I thought I would. And I'll use you as a warning sign, that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind."

Chapter 7

FIVE YEARS AGO

**Castiel**

He hasn't spoken to Dean in a week.

Not for lack of trying on his part. He's called and texted and expended every effort to understand why Dean's not only missed his English class-the TA's still email him about Dean's progress, unaware that he hasn't been Dean's official tutor all semester-but has not come by Castiel's apartment once. He's there so often that it feels empty without him. 

A part of him, a tiny sliver that's managed to avoid sinking itself into Dean Winchester, warns that this might be it. The event that Castiel's dreaded for the last two years could very well be coming to pass, and he's helpless to prevent it. There's nothing he can say to convince Dean that the way they feel isn't wrong. How can it be, when Castiel's world only makes sense when he's near Dean, inside Dean? The hum in the back of his mind that never really goes away, his confusion and resentment, everything goes quiet when Dean's around. 

Although he virtually never has time to write his stories, Castiel isn't appreciating the quiet Saturday morning like he thought he would. His apartment is too still, too gloomy. He dips his tea bag into his mug, comforting himself that maybe now he can allow Gabriel to visit, since Dean's items won't be tossed around Castiel's apartment. When he sees Dean on campus and he treats Castiel like a stranger, it might not hurt as badly. His pride might not rear it's head, demanding he march up to Dean's teammates and deck them. Castiel is not weak. He was raised in an environment were weakness was preyed upon, and he'd learned to defend himself and his own early on. He might not be as big as Dean or the football players, but they are sheltered. They've never truly fought to survive, and the would not stand a chance against Castiel.

Of course, Castiel wouldn't do that to Dean. It's the same reason he won't go to the girls who hang off him and describe in great detail how Dean feels wrapped around his cock, how he arches his back before he comes, groaning Castiel's name. He won't pull off his shirt and show them the marks and bruises Dean's left on his skin whenever he slammed him into the wall or onto the floor, too eager, too desperate for Castiel to be gentle. If Dean unleashed himself on any of those girls like he did with Castiel, he would crush them. Castiel knows how to tame him, how to give him what they both need.

But only when they're alone. Only when Dean's pride isn't at stake.

Castiel wishes he had someone to talk to. Gabriel would go off on how Dean's upbringing has wired homophobia so deeply into his foundation that the messages his heart is trying to send will never pass through the barrier.  He'll quote multiple statistics and research findings to get to the conclusion that Dean is incapable of loving Castiel, not the way Castiel loves him. 'He can't help it,' Gabriel would say, sniffing with mock-sympathy for Dean, 'how can you love another being when you can't even find the ability to love yourself?'

He's considered calling Anna, but conversations with her are often stilted and brief. She's his half-sister, and getting adopted when she was a baby means she hasn't been shaped by the same struggles as Castiel. As grateful he is for the universe that at least one of his siblings escaped, he wishes he could confide in her. Maybe it's for the best. Anna's sweet and kind, and Castiel wouldn't put it past her to cry on his behalf. Or on Dean's behalf. After all, the problem lies with him. 

Shoving his laptop off his knees, Castiel throws his mug into the sink with more force than necessary. Dean's probably with his friends, not sparing Castiel a thought. At the end of the day, Castiel isn't better than the girls who constantly mill around Dean. All of them crave Dean's attention, crave Dean himself, but all they get are scraps. 

Well, Castiel is sick of it. Good riddance. He deserves more than pieces of Dean, more than a relationship where he's a second-class citizen outside his home. He wants to go watch Dean eat burgers and wipe the ketchup off his mouth without getting a hard stare and his hand tossed away. He wants to lay claim to Dean, so when his friends make jokes about his conquests and his wild nights, they'll think twice about it. 

A knock on his door interrupts Castiel's self-righteousness of the rejected. He's still in his pajamas, but the entire building is populated by students. Wandering around in various states of undress is the rule.

The instant Castiel finds Dean standing on the other side of the door, a surge of relief and terror weakens his knees. Either Dean has returned to officially break Castiel's heart, or he hasn't. Neither bodes well for Castiel, and he's considering asking Dean to return at a later time when he looks closely at Dean's expression.

"What happened?" Castiel demands immediately. Dean's expression is pale and blank, completely empty of emotion. It terrifies Castiel. The only reason Castiel allows Dean not to discuss his feelings is because he doesn't have to in order for Castiel to know. Dean wears his heart on his sleeve, his fears and triumphs and ecstasy bared open to Castiel.

But there's nothing now, and it chills Castiel to his very bones. 

"Dean, please," Castiel whispers. Dean grips the door frame in a white knuckle hold and swallows. His hollow gaze refuses to settle on Castiel, instead finding a spot over his shoulder. This is bad. Dean doesn't normally loiter at his doorstep since a student could easily wander past. 

Stepping forward, Castiel lays his hands on either side of Dean's face. His cheekbones are stretched tight beneath Castiel's palms. His jaw works, but he doesn't resist. Gently, Castiel turns Dean's head until the green eyes he's been deprived of all week finally meet his. 

When they do, Dean breaks. 

Castiel barely catches him in time, arms going around Dean's torso the second Dean's knees give out. They fall to the ground, Castiel's shoulder wedged against the wall as he tries to support Dean's weight. Dean collapses into him, allowing Castiel to hold him and burying his face in the juncture between Castiel's shoulder and throat. 

His entire body quakes, sending vibrations through Castiel. Hot tears roll down the neck of Castiel's shirt. 

"He's dead, Cas. John's dead," Dean sobs. "I don't fucking know why I care. I hate him. I hate him so damn much for what he did to Sammy, for the hell he put us through. Why do I care, Cas?"

 _Oh, Dean._ His father, the one who sacrificed Dean's childhood and slotted him in a role Dean wasn't ready for. Castiel's suspected Dean's never stopped trying to fit into the role, constantly molding and reshaping himself to be the prescribed man for John Winchester. Castiel should be vindictively pleased that the awful man is out of Dean's life. 

Instead, his grip on Dean tightens, and he cries while they rock, right there with the door wide open.

 

PRESENT

**Dean**

He's ninety-nine percent certain Cas is about to take a swing at him. He'd looked almost cheerful before he spotted Dean, swinging a plastic bag and humming under his breath. The customary scowl has returned to grace Cas's face, and the plastic handle of the bag he's carrying crinkles at the fist he makes. 

"What are you doing here?" The words barely make it past Cas's gritted teeth.

Dean rolls and unrolls the manila folder in his hands. This was a terrible idea. It's late, and even if it wasn't, Cas doesn't want to see him. He should respect his wishes and stay away. He's being selfish, and Cas has had enough of Dean's selfishness to last a lifetime. 

"I wanted your opinion on a case. You're a freaking amazing writer, and there's a story here I can't quite read myself." It sounds weak, as evident when Cas narrows his eyes. He tilts his head and studies Dean, who's suddenly having trouble breathing. 

"Don't do that," he whispers before he can think better of it. "Shit, Cas, don't look at me like that."

He squints, and the familiar sight hits Dean like a wrecking ball. "Like what?"

The urge to take fistfuls of Cas's ridiculous fucking trench coat and slam his mouth down on those full, bowed lips is almost overwhelming. He'd hook his foot behind Cas's ankle and knock them both to the floor, tear off those clothes and fuck him into oblivion right here in this sketchy ass hallway. 

Fantastic. Dean had held to the hope that his primal attraction to Cas would age and kick the bucket, but if anything, it's only grown claws and teeth. "Never mind," Dean growls, struggling to regain control of his body. Thank fuck he threw on the coat he leaves in the back seat for emergencies, because there's definitely an emergency down south right now.  

Cas is still eyeing Dean as if worried he'll have to expend the effort of dialing 911 if Dean has some sort of seizure. "Are you...alright?"

"Fine," he says jauntily. So what if his dick is hard enough to hammer nails? Enough of Cas's blistering glares and it'll be dead in no time. "You gonna help me or what?"

Cas adjusts his stance, glancing around as if remembering they're standing outside his door. He gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment- _shit, down boy, do NOT look at his lips, do not think about his mouth-_ before pushing past Dean to unlock the door. He walks inside, toes off his shoes, and tosses Dean an impatient look over his shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"

Thank God. For a minute, he was worried Cas would slam the door in his face and bolt the locks. He enters quickly, before Cas has a chance to come to his senses. He closes the door and twists the lock for extra measure. He's worked this neighborhood before, and he's frankly shocked Cas doesn't need fifty deadbolts and a Rottweiler to sleep at night. It bothers Dean, and he makes a note to reroute some patrols to this area. 

Dean follows Cas as he pads over to the fridge in his mismatched socks and stocks a few plastic containers on the shelves. _Jesus, where's his food?_ There's only a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a milk carton inside the fridge. Cas, as if remembering that Dean's shadowing his movements, rapidly slams the fridge shut. It's too late; not only is Dean worried that Cas is gonna get robbed at gunpoint, but he suspects the bastard isn't even eating. 

In the living room, they resume the seats they'd had last time, with Dean on the couch and Cas on the tattered armchair. Cas crosses his arms over his chest and cuts right to the chase. "Case of what?"

"Homicides. Three, but I've only got info on two."

Cas's disdain is replaced with shock. "What? Murder?"

Right, probably should've been a little clearer before blindsiding the guy. "I'm a cop." He waves two finger-guns at Cas.

"You're a police officer? Since when?"

"Uh, since graduation. Stayed in Kansas a while, got offered a job in the LAPD, promoted last year. Been serving and protecting the fine county of Los Angeles since." More like pushing paperwork, but he'd rather Cas think he's cooler than he actually is. 

Judging from the disapproval radiating off him, 'cool' isn't quite the word Cas wants to use. "What happened to business school? To getting your MBA?"

Typical Cas, memory like a steel fucking trap. Dean crosses his leg over his knee and jiggles his foot, uncomfortable with the line of questioning. "Didn't work out."

Cas frowns, and Dean steels himself for more prying questions. But Cas only purses his lips and holds his hand out for the folder. Relieved, Dean hands it over. 

Cas is reading the reports with rapt attention. He's so absorbed that Dean allows himself to unabashedly stare. It reminds him of Cas the tutor, reading Dean's work with a red pen at the ready. Dean lived for those stolen moments where he could drink in Cas. He was beautiful then, because despite Cas's crappy childhood and lonely youth, his innocence remained untainted. He carried scars on his body that he didn't allow to seep under his skin, to change who he was.  

This Cas is cold and hard. He's still sexy as sin, but there's an edge, a warning that having him comes at a price. It's drugging, and Dean's flirting with disaster by allowing himself to get caught in" Castiel Novak's snare. But who is he kidding? He's been caught and chained since he was eighteen. 

"Oh," Cas gasps when he flips a page. The color drains out of him, and Dean's across the living room in a flash. The photos taken at the crime scene are scattered on Cas's lap, and though Dean's desensitized to the gruesome images, he winces. "Probably shoulda warned you. These kills ain't pretty."

"This girl is sixteen," Cas murmurs, trailing his fingers over the photo of the teenager's corpse. "She's only a few years younger than Anna."

Dean stiffens at the mention of Anna's name, but Cas doesn't pick up on it, too absorbed in the pictures. Dean stays near, sitting heavily on the arm of the couch. Anna Milton, Cas's half-sister and the catalyst to the explosive end of their relationship. Cas confided in Anna, Dean flew off the handle, and the battle to see who could hurt who the most was underway. 

"Both died from blunt force trauma to the head," Dean says, tapping the forensic report balanced on Cas's knee. "So did the third."

"And you think they're connected?"

"I do. MO is the same, and the three were ganked within a few days of each other. The ME-sorry, medical examiner- guesses the weapon that did them in was a crowbar or a baton, something no more than seven inches tall and dense." Dean almost laughs at how ridiculous it is that he's relaying his case to Cas, of all people. Here he is within an arms distance of the guy he's been hung up on since college, and they're discussing murder at eleven o'clock at night. 

Cas nods to indicate he's heard Dean, but he doesn't divert his attention from the papers. Meanwhile, Dean's hands are twitching against his thigh, aware that they're within stroking distance of Cas's tousled black hair. He wants to sink his fingers through the silky strands, use the hold to guide to Cas's mouth where he wants it on his body. 

Christ, there are pictures of dead people a few inches away. He's got to get himself under control. 

"Would it be alright if I kept these tonight? I need to fully absorb the details before I can give you my impression."

Leave the files with Cas? Jo would have his ass if the work got lost and she had to go hunt down the reports from the archive. But Cas has raised his eyes to Dean's and is waiting for an answer, and Dean's agreeing before sense has a chance to catch up. "Sure. I can take them tomorrow."

Cas smirks, gathering the papers back into a tidy pile in the folder. "Do L.A's finest usually license writers to do their jobs?" 

Is Cas...teasing him? Dean's laugh comes out like a strangled hack. "You'd be surprised."

They lapse into silence, Cas bending the edges of the folder back and forth. Dean know's his calling card is up. At least now he can leave knowing he'll see Cas real soon. Being this close to him is killing Dean slowly, but he can't help himself. Some masochistic part of him needs Cas's approval, his guidance. 

Or maybe he just needs Cas, period. 

The thought guts Dean. If his mental state depends on Cas's approval, he might as well damn himself now. 

Cas hasn't forgiven him, and Dean's willing to roll the dice that he never will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me life y'all. What was your favorite part of the chapter? Do you guys like the flashbacks?


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Not About Angels" by Birdy.   
> "How unfair, it's just our luck...Found something real that's out of touch. But if you'd searched the whole wide world, would you dare to let it go?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is rated 'explicit' so obviously there's some very porny stuff ahead, but I figured I should post a warning. Some dub-con smut in a flashback at the end.

Chapter Eight

**Dean**

"Are you  _insane_?" Jo shouts. Benny winces, closing Dean's office door when passing officers glance towards them. "You gave the files to a fiction writer? What if he posts them online? What if he's somehow connected to the murders? That's illegal, Dean!"

Dean sits forward, folding his hands atop the desk. He'd hoped to avoid the blowout until he swung by Cas's later to get the files, but Jo's nothing if not diligent. No one's come to claim the victims as of yet, and she'd asked for the files to see if she could find something to help speed along an ID. "It's not illegal in California."

"Wasn't one of the vics a minor?"

She has him there. He knows he fucked up by showing Cas the files, but they've worked with people from a variety of professions to solve cases before. Just because none of them were hermit-like writers with an unknown pen name doesn't mean Cas is less legitimate. Still, he'll give this one to Jo. He had ulterior motives for involving Cas, and it's useless to argue the point. "Listen, it was a judgement call. I've known him a long time, he's a good guy. If he can help, great. If not, you can go back to treating them like three separate cases and chalk this up as another fail on my part. Okay?"

Jo maintains her scowl for another moment before throwing her arms in the air in defeat. "Fine, Dean. But if I don't have those files by tomorrow, I'm stringing and quartering your ass."

Dean winks. "Kinky."

Flipping him off, Jo storms out, slamming the door shut behind her. Benny winces and clucks his tongue sympathetically. "You're in some deep shit, man."

Lifting a shoulder, Dean grabs his keys and throws his arm over Benny's shoulder as they exit his office. He's supposed to have lunch with Jess and Sam to make up for his absence the last week. The Spanish Inquisition would be a mercy compared to the grilling they've got prepped for him. 

"No kidding," Dean agrees wholeheartedly. 

 

**Castiel**

 

Castiel has absolutely no  clue what to make of the files Dean left.

He's studied each fragment in acute detail, hoping a connection will leap from the pages. All he's succeeded in doing is giving himself a headache. The crime scene photos are turned facedown on his desk. Although they're critical pieces of evidence, he can't stomach them. The last thing Castiel needs is more fodder for his nightmares. 

As much as he hates to admit it, most of his drive-aside from morbid human curiosity-stems from the desire to please Dean. He wants to impress him, as if he owes it to the old Castiel, the one who mentored Dean, to provide help when needed. It's ludicrous, and Castiel's stowed the files away in his drawer until Dean can come retrieve them.

His stomach flips at the reminder.  _Dean's coming_. He's been here twice, but this is the first time Castiel is anticipating the visit. It was his first thought upon waking from another fitful sleep, and has lurked in the back of his mind since. He even tidied up his apartment and felt so intensely stupid afterwards that he nearly recreated the mess out of pure spite. 

There has been one positive development, however. He wrote two thousand words in the morning, wasted a few hours trudging to the laundromat down the street, and returned to what he'd written to find he actually liked it. He'd penned a draft, albeit a messy one, but there are words on the page and that's more than Castiel's managed in ages. It's the first spark of hope he's had that he might meet Hannah's deadline. 

For dinner, he reheated Gabriel's eggplant dish and made the mistake of watching the news. He usually steers clear of the massive, bloody chaos in the world, but he hoped it may shed more light on Dean's murder cases. As predicted, it only soured Castiel's mood and left him watching pleasant bee documentaries to scrub the visions of destruction from his head. 

At some point late in the afternoon, he falls asleep on the couch and dreams about Dean and bees and a menacing crowbar. The crowbar is chasing Dean and Castiel is a helpless bee, flapping his ineffectual gossamer wings, unable to stop the crowbar or save Dean. 

He wakes up in a cold sweat. His apartment is pitch black. Squinting at his overly bright phone screen, he reads the time and swears. It's almost eight, which means Dean intends to appear at a late hour yet again, or something has delayed him. Castiel tries to brush off the voice whispering that perhaps Dean didn't show up because he's in trouble. After all, he's a police officer. Danger stalks him; death is his shadow. 

Castiel pushes a fist against his mouth and swallows back the wave of nausea.  _Dean is okay. He's okay._ Perhaps it simply slipped his mind to pick up the files. He might be held up at work. 

Shoving both hands through his hair, Castiel panics in the darkness of his apartment, a place more deadly than the outside world could ever be. 

 

**Dean**

Balancing his phone between his ear and his shoulder, Dean pockets his wallet and clears his desk for the night. He's heading out later than planned, but he ended up responding to a call for backup on Wilshire during lunch with Jess and Sammy, and it had taken longer than Dean thought it would. Figures, since Mid-Wilshire's always a hit-or-miss. Could be a particularly nasty collision, or an embassy alert about some teenage thugs loitering around the entrance. Dean ended up dealing with a crash involving a pregnant woman, two fatalities, and a missing driver. 

Serves him right for trying to duck out in the middle of lunch. Jess probably hexed him. 

Right now, Sammy's threatening him with vivid bodily dismemberment should he attempt to flake on guys night. "I need a break from the wedding planning, man. Jess is sleeping over at her sister's house, and Garth and Benny are already here."

"Alright, alright, quit your whining," Dean mumbles. Where the hell did he leave his keys? Shit. He drops to the carpet, sticking his head under the desk and feeling blindly for the familiar cold metal. The sound of a click signals someone's entrance into his office, ideally Jo because he can't search for shit. 

"Jo! Check if my keys are by the garbage can," he calls, then curses when he bumps his head into the leg of the desk. 

"Dean?" Sam pesters. "Are you coming?"

"Yes! Jesus, I'll be there." He hangs up and tosses the phone into his jacket pocket. The garbage can rattles as it moves, and Dean's relieved Jo isn't pissed enough to leave him hanging. He continues crawling on the carpet, going so far as to lift the computer's cable cords to see if his keys somehow got tangled up in the mess of wires. "You find anything?" he says, muffled by the desk. 

"I think so, yes," a deep, rumbling voice that is  most definitely  _not_ Jo answers. 

Dean straightens too fast, forgetting he's on his knees under the desk, and slams his head so hard against the surface that he can count the stars exploding in his vision. 

A strong grip wraps around his elbow and slowly tugs him out and onto his feet. Dean stares at Cas- Cas in his office, at his work, _Cas is here_ \- for so long that Cas's guarded expression wavers with concern for a second. "You should sit down," Cas orders, depressing Dean's shoulders until he's firmly seated on his chair. Cas perches on the edge of Dean's desk and dangles Dean's keys from the tip of his index finger. "I believe these are yours."

Mutely, Dean takes the keys and wonders if his brain is so sick of being concussed that it's thrown hallucination into its evil bag of tricks. 

Cas taps the two manila folders on Dean's desk. He recognizes them as the files he gave Cas because of the worn flaps, bent and twisted within Cas's long, nervous fingers so often that they've acquired a worn and fuzzy appearance. "I made notes on a few Post-Its to direct your attention to interesting correlations between the cases, but I'm afraid I can't be of much assistance. Detective fiction is not my forte."

Well, that's another piece of information Dean can add to his very short list on Cas's writing. He's still struggling with the fact that Cas is here at the station. "Don't worry about it. Hell, I've been doing this for half a decade and I'm stumped. They're probably unrelated, anyway." He palms the files and goes, "I was going to swing by your place as soon as I left."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Cas lifts a careless shoulder. "I was in the area."

They both know it's a crock of shit. Cas didn't go to new places unless it was under duress, and from what Dean's seen of how he lives, his tendency to say shut up indoors has only gotten worse. He found the station and took a risk for Dean, and Dean has no goddamn clue why his heart is doing jumping jacks against his rib cage. 

"Right." Dean clears his throat and stands, folders in tow. "I'll drop these at Jo's desk on the way out. They're hers, technically."

Cas follows Dean into the hall. Flustered and acutely aware of Cas's gaze on the back of his neck, it takes a few tries to get the right key to the lock the office door. "Does she also think the deaths are related?"

Dean shakes his head. "Thinks I've got an overactive imagination."

Something like carnal appreciation flits across Cas's gaze, too fast to track. "You are...inventive."

Fuck. He's only been in Cas's presence for ten minutes and he's already sporting a semi and worried he's about to go into cardiac arrest. Sammy will drive to the hospital to suffocate him with the pillow if he misses his idiotic guys night. Dean weaves around the cramped cubicles to Jo, who's pulling a double tonight. Just his luck. He was hoping to drop the files off for her to find in the morning. Now he has to deal with her gloating. 

She leans back in her chair when Dean appears to drop the folders beside her keyboard with a thump. "Back before morning. I'm an overachiever."

Hardly sparing the files she'd pitched a fit over a cursory glance, she directs her focus to Cas. The way her gaze travels over Cas's body, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, doesn't sit right with Dean. He shifts in front of Cas, obscuring her sight. Undeterred, she rolls her chair to the side and extends a hand to Cas. "You must be Dean's writer friend."

Eyeing her warily, Cas shakes her hand. "It would appear so, wouldn't it?"

Jo doesn't pick up on the hostile undercurrent to his words, but Dean does. He's not happy to be introduced. Does Cas hate him so much that can't stand being associated with him in any form? But if so, why did he come here? Why did he let Dean into his home in the first place? The questions circle like wasps, stinging Dean with the reminder that it's a game of Russian Roulette he's playing with Cas. 

"You don't look like Dean's usual crowd," Jo continues blithely, oblivious to the fact that Dean's weighing the pros and cons of punching a woman. "How do you two know each other, anyway?" 

"None of your business," Dean snaps. "I'll see you Monday, Joanna." He gestures for Cas to head towards the exit and follows closely behind him. 

"Bye, writer friend!" Jo chirps after them, eliciting an annoyed grunt from Dean. They emerge into the chilly night, and Dean fills his lungs with air that isn't polluted with stale cigarettes and burnt coffee.

Cas shoves his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. They're stalled in front of the entrance, and Dean searches for an excuse to keep Cas here a bit longer. The case was a bust. There's nothing tying them together anymore, no guarantee that he'll see Cas again. "Sorry about her," Dean says. "She's got a few screws loose, but she's family."

"You care for her," Cas observes, impassive. 

"Kinda have to. She was my partner on the force for a while, and her mom's marrying Bobby in the fall."

"Your uncle Bobby?"

"That's the one," Dean replies, not surprised in the least that Cas remembers. Whenever Dean spoke, Cas listened with single-minded intent. As if Dean know how  to say anything worth hearing. 

Cas shifts his weight from one leg to the other, a move Dean recognizes as a prelude to Cas fleeing the scene. He should let him go, let them part ways here on slightly better terms and be done. But Dean's weak, so fucking weak, when it comes to Cas. 

"Where's your car? I'll walk ya," Dean offers, scouring the parking lot as if Cas's car is going to sit up on it's back wheels and honk. 

"I, uh, took the bus. A few, actually," Cas mutters, resolutely staring at his shoes. "I don't like to drive."

"Yeah, I remember." Dean's jaw is agape. Cas took buses to get to him? God, every time he thinks he's got some kind of read on this bastard, he pulls a stunt like this. "Well, my car's over there. I'm giving you a ride." When Cas opens his mouth to protest, Dean cuts him off with a wave. "Non-negotiable. I'll strap you in if I have to."

He expects Cas to cuss him out, take a swing, or turn on his heel and storm in the opposite direction. Not that it would've stopped Dean, of course. He'd simply chase him down and tie him to the roof of the car. Imagine his shock when Cas simply steps off the curb and strides past Dean to the Impala, weaving around police cars and a pickup truck to come to a stop by the passenger side of the Impala.

Well. That was easy.

Cas smirks at Dean's flabbergasted expression. "Believe it or not, a day of analyzing crime scene photos has made me averse to Friday night buses in Downtown L.A."

"I believe it," Dean chuckles. His first year on the force in Kansas saw him glancing over his shoulder at the slightest noise and sleeping with his gun tucked under his pillow. The monstrosities of this shit-hole world they live in don't get easier to digest, but with enough practice, they can be ignored. Dean slides into the leather comfort of his baby and reaches over to push Cas's door open. "Sorry, Sam slammed it a few days ago. Stupid giraffe bent the metal and I haven't gotten around to fixing it."

Cas climbs in and buckles his seat belt. "You enjoy working on the car. It won't be too burdensome to fixing it."

Dean laughs. "Yeah, but then I don't get to complain."

While Dean starts the engine and gives the monitor a few minutes to warm, he tries not to recall the last time he and Cas were in the Impala. But his body dominates his brain, and he glances in his rearview mirror and pictures it, as if it's happening in the backseat at this exact moment. 

_"Cas! Slow down, damn it!" Dean huffs, jogging after Cas's hunched form. Discreetly, he checks that they're far enough from the burger joint his teammates frequent._

_"Fuck off, Dean," Cas growls. D_ _ean trips over the asphalt, nearly plunging to the ground. His pulse kicks into high gear. Cas doesn't curse unless he's really, truly pissed off. Dean covers the last few paces between them and snatches Cas's elbow in a vice grip, dragging his struggling, stubborn ass to the Impala._

_Grabbing handfuls of Cas's trench coat, Dean slams him against the side of the car. Cas's fury doesn't dim, but it gains a new dimension; desperate, primal hunger. Dean's being cruel and stupid. They're on a residential street, out in the open. Someone could come along and see them at any moment._

_Cas's eyes shoot lightening, mocking Dean like the coward he is, daring him to prove them wrong. "What did you say to me?" Dean growls. He picks up Cas's leg and hitches it to his waist, grinding closer to the rock hard length in Cas's jeans. "Say it one more time, Castiel." The threat is a velvety purr. Cas swipes his tongue across his pillowy lips, leaving them wet and glistening, begging to be wrapped around Dean's aching cock._

_Defiant, Cas's voice is savage in it's need when he spits, "Fuck. Off."_  

_Shoving his thumb into Cas's mouth, he shifts Cas far enough to open the back door of the Impala and push them both inside. They fall in a tangled mess, Cas's teeth sinking into Dean's thumb and eliciting an aroused hiss of pain. He barely remembers to close the door while he scrambles for the zipper of his pants. Cas surges forward, hips trapped beneath the narrow bracket of Dean's knees. He frees Dean's cock from its cottony confines and pumps him in hard, sure strokes. Dean's moan echoes in the car, and he thrusts into Cas's hand until he opens his eyes and sees those ocean blues, snarky and smug. He thinks he can win this by playing Dean like a master violinist._

_Too bad that's not how things work with them. Dean narrowly avoids smacking Cas's head against the far door when he presses him down. Their lips collide, teeth clashing and b_ _attling in sweeps of their tongues. Cas bites Dean's lower lip hard enough to add the metallic tang of blood to their messy mouths. Dean's exposed cock throbs against Cas's stomach._

_"You son of a bitch." Dean grins, wiping the blood on the back of his wrist and crawling up Cas's body. His cock brushes the rough stubble of Cas's jaw. Cas sneers up at Dean, hair mussed and lips swollen. Dean knows there's a slim, slim chance Cas is pissed enough to take a chomp out of his babymaker, as evident when Cas's lips part invitingly, tauntingly._

_Dean takes the bait, bracing his weight on straining forearms against the window and tilting his hips._

_He sinks his dick into the wet heat of Cas's mouth and thrusts._

"Dean!" Cas irate tone snaps Dean from his stupor. For a wild moment, Dean wonders if Cas somehow read his mind and saw the filthy movie playing through his memory. 

But Cas is pointing at Dean's phone, where it's mounted above the radio. It's buzzing with a call from none other than Sam, the persistent son of a bitch. 

Cas glances at him, and the dare in his gaze hits Dean like an iron fist. It's the same mocking defiance without the rage. At least, it's not burning as brightly as it was when Dean had decided to wipe it off by fucking Cas's face until the mutiny was gone, leaving Cas withered and disappointed and Dean self-deprecating and empty. 

Cas is waiting on him, and Dean can tell from the surly twist of Cas's mouth he's not expecting Dean's choices to have changed. Not expecting Dean to be any more willing to stand in the flames at Cas's side and burn. 

And certainly not expecting Dean to reach forward, press the 'Accept Call' button, and go, "Hey, Sam."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this has nothing to do with this fic but can someone explain to me what Alpha/ Omega stuff is? I see it all over Destiel fics but I have 0 clue what's going on and I don't know where to look. Help, please!
> 
> -Jessa


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Certain Things" by James Arthur, Chasing Grace  
> "I've got no reason to doubt you...cause something's hurt and you're my only virtue. And I'm virtually yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the sweet comments on the last few chapters, they make my day! This chapter is still angst and frustration, but I promise things are looking up...kinda.

Chapter Nine

FIVE YEARS AGO

**Castiel**

"That was fun," Dean pants, collapsing onto Castiel's chest and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Where'd you learn that?"

Dean rakes his hand through Castiel's hair, winding and twisting the strands between his fingers. It's endlessly flattering to Castiel that Dean loves his hair, considering Dean is much more physically appealing than Castiel is. His body is hard and strong, pale freckled skin only marred by a few alabaster white scars clustered on Dean's upper arm and his right hipbone. Castiel brushes the damaged skin and wishes he could find whoever did this to Dean and rip them apart. 

"I have to have some secrets," Castiel teased. It's dark outside, a stark reminder that another day has ended. Christmas is in a few days, which means Dean will be gone for at least a week to spend time with Sam and Bobby. Castiel constantly tries not to be jealous of the time Sam Winchester gets to spend with Dean, but it's difficult. If Castiel could meet Sam, occasionally share in those times...the separation might not hurt so much. 

This year, Michael has demanded all his siblings be present for Christmas Day, regardless of distance or previous plans. Gabriel had grumbled about the 'domineering prick', but Castiel knows he's relieved he won't be forced to drag Castiel out of hiding this time. None of them disobey a direct order from their older brother, despite the fact that Castiel wasn't raised with him in the house for very long, and Anna's only met him twice. Michael had even requested from Anna's adoptive parents that she be allowed to spend this year's holiday with her birth-siblings, and they'd agreed. Castiel's reasonably certain Michael intimidated them into a 'yes'. 

"Why?"

Castiel stops calculating flight times to Washington. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Why do you have to have secrets? I don't keep any secrets from you," Dean continues. "Why won't you tell me where you learned that?" There's a hard edge to Dean's voice that has Castiel sitting up, propping his back against the couch. Dean follows suit, the blanket pooling obscenely low on his waist. They hardly ever used the bed to have sex on, since the view from Castiel's window is best seen from the living room floor or couch. Dean likes to lie down afterwards and gaze at the stars, speculating about aliens and life on space. 

"It's not a big deal," Castiel says, confused. Dean's expression is closed-off as he stares at him, waiting on an answer. Did he say something wrong? What if...what if Dean didn't like what Castiel did? He'd certainly sounded like he was enjoyed it while crying Castiel's name and screaming out his orgasm. "I read about it."

"You-wait, what?" Dean's forehead furrows. 

"Not everything I read is academic. Although it was...educational."

Dean's mouth twitches before he bursts into laughter. "Oh man, you sayin' you read your porn? That's a whole 'nother level, Cas."

Castiel scowls, embarrassed. "Aw, don't be mad." Dean leans forward, his smiling mouth pressing against Castiel's lips once, twice, three times until Castiel can't help but smile, too. He pushes Dean off with an eye roll.

"You're absurd."

"You love me," Dean returns with smug assurance. 

_I do. Oh, how I do._

"I'm going to miss you," Castiel says quickly. Since the death of Dean's father a few months ago, Castiel has carefully avoided mentioning anything to upset Dean. Namely, whether their relationship is progressing, and where. Whether  _Dean_ is progressing. Castiel has expended every effort to be patient, to empathize with Dean's fluid sexuality. Except for all intents and purposes, Dean hasn't been struggling with the matter. He still labels himself as completely, rigidly straight. Castiel knows his feelings for Dean are much more powerful than they should be, much stronger than Dean's feelings for him. Castiel has been gay and content his entire life. He didn't date, and he never had more than a passing interest in anybody. Of the many available, emotionally secure men on their liberal arts campus, it figures Castiel chose the charming, flannel-wearing, heart-stopping, repressed heterosexual. 

"I'm going to miss you too," Dean sighs. He tugs Castiel back down to the blanket on the floor and pulls him close, wedging a leg between Castiel's thighs and winding his arm under Castiel's shoulder, molding his body to Castiel's until he can't pinpoint where Dean begins and he ends. Dean's yawn raises goosebumps along Castiel's collarbones, and Dean somehow manages to press even closer. He's hot and heavy and his hair smells like leather and pine. Castiel might not survive this separation. Around his brothers, around Anna...logic might make sneak into this fantasy, crystallizing his hazy joy into hard reality. 

The more he allows Dean to sink under his skin, the more pieces of Castiel will be torn apart when Dean inevitably breaks loose. 

But here, with Dean asleep on his chest, his body wound around Castiel as if he's terrified he'll vanish, Castiel brushes aside the looming agony and kisses the freckles on Dean's shoulder. Reassuring him, even in sleep, that Castiel won't ever leave his side. 

 

PRESENT

**Dean**

"Are you almost here?" Sam demands, his irritated voice filling the car. The engine is already rearing to go, so Dean backs out of the parking lot and into the narrow, clustered lanes leading to the I-5 South. In the passenger's seat, Cas is eerily still. 

"Dude, you called five minutes ago. Get off my ass, will ya?"

"I thought you might try to bail once you got into the car."

It's a fair point. Staring steadily ahead, at the dim red blinkers of the cars merging to the right, Dean takes the ramp onto the freeway and pretends he doesn't sense Cas's rising anxiety. "Listen, Sammy, be alright if a friend tags along?"

Although Dean is doing his damndest not to glance at Cas, he's willing to bet good money that Cas is gnawing on his lip and squinting at Dean as if he's grown a second head. 

"Uh, sure. That's fine. Someone I know?"

At Sammy's innocent question, the yellow lane markers, the sweeping headlights of oncoming traffic, even the steering wheel fade. He thinks of Cas cheering Dean on at his games no matter how many times Dean politely, awkwardly, weakly asked him not to come. He can feel Cas's strong arms wrapped around him, rocking Dean back and forth after John died and he'd had a boulder sitting on his chest, slowly suffocating him. 

_Someone you should've known, Sammy. Someone you should've gotten the chance to meet, to love, to admire. I kept him from you because I was scared to make him real, because I'm a fuck-up who doesn't know happiness when it's smiling at him in the morning._

"No. You don't know him," Dean answers quietly. "But you will. I promise you that."

_I promise you both that._

"O-kay." Sam clearly thinks Dean's two crackers short of a lunchbox. "See you and your mystery friend soon, I guess."

As soon as Dean's phone screen goes dark, Cas hisses, "Stop the car."

Dean sighs; he was anticipating this. "When we get to Sammy's, we can disc-"

"STOP THE FUCKING CAR!" Cas screams, slapping the dashboard with open palms. 

"Jesus, Cas!" It's only luck that keeps Dean from veering the car into the cement divider. Cas is vibrating, his fury washing over Dean in blistering waves. Frustrated, Dean flicks his turn signal to switch lanes, but his speed must not be enough for Cas, because he  _starts opening his fucking door_!

Cursing, Dean floors the gas, cutting diagonally across three lanes to the tune of blaring car horns and foul shouts. He slams to a stop at the shoulder, and Cas is leaping out before the wheels are done rolling. Dean has just enough presence of mind to punch the emergency lights before he's bolting after him. 

Cas is marching ahead, hands balled into fists at his sides. His trench coat billows back with the gusts of wind from the cars speeding past them. Less than a dozen feet separate Cas from the cars racing at sixty or over. If he's pissed enough to threaten jumping out of a moving car...Dean knows Cas is impulsive; too passionate, too driven by the immediacy of his emotions. 

And there's  _less than a dozen feet_ between him and cars going at breakneck speed. 

Gravel crunches under Dean's shoes as he sprints, locking his hand around Cas's elbow and wrenching him around.

"What is  _wrong_ with you, you crazy sonuvabitch!" Dean bellows, shaking Cas so hard he hears his teeth click. "You trying to be roadkill, that it?"

Cas tries to free himself from Dean's grip, which only results in Dean's hold tightening to bruising force. "Let go of me!"

"No! What's gotten into you, Cas?" Up until now, Cas's resentment and anger had been directed at Dean in stinging barbs and painful verbal blows. Not once had he flown off the handle like this, and it scares Dean. It reminds him of another time Cas lost it, one of the worst days of Dean's sorry existence. 

In a single move, Cas turns the tables on Dean, using his free arm to grab a fistful of Dean's jacket and pull him in until a sheet of paper couldn't fit between their noses. Cas's stormy blue eyes shred through Dean, tearing across his pretenses like they're made of tissue paper. "You don't get to turn back time," Cas growls, lips so close it's as if he's embedding the words straight into Dean. "There are no do-overs, no take backs. You nearly killed me, you bastard. But I  _survived,_ I fucking survived and I'll be damned if I let you drag me down again."

He's right, he's so right, and Dean doesn't have a fucking leg to stand on, but he can't help snapping back, "Oh yeah? You call drinking yourself into a coma every night surviving? You call being so insecure about your career, your friggin' life's work, that you can't show it to a single soul-you call that surviving? I've got a fun fact for you, buddy-you don't need me to drag you down, 'cause there ain't much lower you can sink."

Cas's eyes widen and shimmer. Dean hates himself with such intensity in that moment that he releases Cas's arm and staggers back. "I-I'm sorry, Cas. I didn't-you know I didn't mean that."

He doesn't look at Dean, his expression going hollow and bleak. Dean would've preferred a round of bullets without his safety vest on to this. And he caused it. He put that look on Cas, and only a few minutes after his resolution to fix things between them. To stop taking from Cas and start giving.

"You're right," Cas whispers. It's a miracle Dean can hear him over the whipping wind and rattling cars. "You're right."

"Cas, I-"

"What do you want from me, Dean?" The fight leaves Cas's body, the dark moons under his eyes and stark cheekbones reflected in the beams of passing headlights. Cas looks so goddamn worn down and lost, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to wrap Cas in his arms and shield him from the world. A ridiculous thought, since he's the one Cas needs protection from.

 _Nothing. Everything._ "I just want to make it right," Dean says, taking a step closer. Cas is staring off to the side, but he tenses at Dean's approach. "Let me make it right, Cas."

"Make what right? I'm not some dirty little sin you need to atone for. Let me go, Dean."

A vision floods Dean's mind, of blindly grabbing a horrified Cas's hand, Dean's eye rapidly swelling shut, his busted lip dripping blood like a faucet. Through the agony incinerating his wounds, he'd still reached for Cas, reached for the knuckles slick with Dean's blood. Cas's cheek was bleeding from where Dean had inflicted his own damage, and Cas's expression had crumpled like a sandcastle besieged by a mighty wave, disintegrating into crushing remorse. He'd shaken Dean off and sobbed,  _Let me go, Dean,_ just before he packed up and dropped out of school, dropped out of Dean's life. 

He hadn't been able to stop him then. Cas deserved a million times better than him, and he still does. 

But Dean's selfish, and if all he can do is take, then by God is he going to take his fucking fill of this beautiful, broken man. 

"You're not my sin," Dean corrects, clasping Cas's shoulder and forcing his gaze to Dean's. "You hear me? Being with you isn't what I need to atone for. It's what I did to you in the meantime, that's what I gotta fix."

"What we did to each other," Cas mutters, so low that Dean nearly misses it. 

"What?"

Cas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hasn't tried to shake Dean off yet, which Dean hopes is a sign of his sincerity getting through and not a sign that Cas is too exhausted to argue. "Never mind. How do you propose to fix the past?"

Dean retracts his arm and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Well, for starters, I'd really like you to come to Sam's with me. It's this dumb guys' night he's throwing with two of our buddies."

Might be a trick of the light, but Dean could swear Cas turns slightly green. "You want to pretend we're pals to your brother and your best friends?"

"You're my be-" Dean starts, only to quickly interrupt himself with, "I mean, it won't be that hard, right? We'll stay for an hour, tops, and then Sammy will let me leave early to drop you off because he's a lot of things, but rude ain't one. 

"But...why?"

Dean can't answer that. The need to introduce Cas to Sammy had been noticeably absent when he and Cas dated, and it had driven a Sasquatch-sized wedge in their relationship. Why it matters now, introducing them so much after the fact, Dean doesn't know. 

He considers using some bullshit reason, like 'you have a great poker face and Benny cheats during the game' or 'Sam won't let me leave early otherwise', but ultimately decides on, "I have no goddamn clue why. But it would go a long way, Cas. I know I have no right to ask you for anything, and you can flip me the bird and never see my ugly mug again afterwards, but please come to Sammy's with me. Please."

_I'm not ready to say goodbye to you._

Cas stares at Dean, head tilted and eyes narrowed into icy flints. Dean braces himself for the rejection, for the inevitable  _fuck you_ , and loses his breath entirely when Cas swears, kicks the loose gravel, and mumbles, "I'm going to regret this."

He pushes past a frozen Dean and stomps to the car. Dean distantly hears Cas grumble as he struggles with the twisted metal of the passenger side door. Dean's numb, flooded with joy and relief, followed by a wave of 'Oh God, oh God, don't let me mess this up, don't let me make this worse'. 

 _Fat chance,_ he mourns, watching the cars flit by him at dizzying speed. As always, disaster lurks just on the other side, and Dean doesn't hesitate to meet it, arms and heart wide-open. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish there was a detox smoothie for feelings. How nice would that be?   
> Anyone know any funny, romantic comedy-esque destiel fics? I'm in desperate need of a laugh.
> 
> -Jessa


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Devils" by Say Hi  
> "See, the devil got my address  
> See, the devil got my car  
> And the devil ain't no novice  
> And the devil ain't no liar  
> I'm a tryin' not to get up, but he made it to my heart  
> So I cannot make it back from the dark, dark, dark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter because I'm trying to finish this fic before Tuesday so I can stop being obsessed

Chapter 10

**Castiel**

He's officially lost his mind. There have been plenty of close calls over the years when he was certain he'd become the clinical definition of insane, from waking up underneath a pool table in Arizona with no memory of how he got there, to accepting an invitation to Michael's wedding and nearly landing in prison. Yes, Castiel has had numerous occasions to declare himself a victim of the deep end, but it's not until now that he's certain. 

He's lost his mind, and he keeps circling back to Dean's wild, desperate plea on the freeway, pleading with Castiel for a chance to right his wrongs. Nothing he said would dissuade Dean from his asinine mission, this misplaced impulse to fix the past. To fix Castiel. After Dean's disparaging slight on Castiel's lifestyle, after he targeted Castiel's need for anonymity with his writing, it should've been easy to say no. He should've been able to meet Dean's beautiful green eyes with a loud 'screw you'. 

But he'd allowed himself to fall in Dean Winchester's trap, and now he's supposed to shake Sam Winchester's hand and pretend he doesn't know how old Sam was when he lost his first tooth, how his night terrors got to be so violent in middle school that he accidentally gave Dean a black eye, or a million other tiny details a stranger shouldn't know. But Dean's love for Sam saturated his time with Castiel, and he'd absorbed it eagerly, as if by knowing Sam's life story he'd somehow earn the right to meet him. Years have gone by since Castiel's wished for more of Dean, and yet here he is half a decade later and his palms are damp with moisture. He's nervous, worried about being introduced to Dean's precious little brother and making a good impression. 

What a joke.

"You're awfully quiet over there," Dean says. He's got one hand on the steering wheel, and his other arm is propped against the window and folded as Dean knots his fingers into the hair at the back of his head. Another habit Castiel wishes he couldn't decipher, an insight that Dean's on edge and fidgety. That makes two of them. 

Castiel leans his head against the frosty window, skull rattling against the glass when Dean circles an off-ramp exit too quickly. "What would you like me to say?"

 _Curl, tug, release_ go Dean's fingers at the abused light brown hair. Castiel averts his attention to the window, resolutely ignoring his instinctual urge to comfort Dean. Dark alleyways cluttered with overflowing grocery carts flit by, followed by clusters of smoke shops and nails salons. The two sides of LA, a pit of human despair or neon lights of hope. At the next light, they're on a street bustling with students carrying styrofoam coffee cups, laptops, and laughing as they leisurely cross the street. Young and carefree, the world at their feet. "Does Sam go to UCLA?" Castiel asks, unable to tamp his curiosity. 

"Yeah, starts his second year of law school in the fall," Dean answers, and there's no mistaking the fierce swell of pride. As preposterous as it is-because why on earth should Castiel care about anything to do with the Winchester brothers?- Castiel smiles. He's proud of this boy he's never met. Perhaps he's simply happy for Dean, that his sacrifices for his baby brother have not been in vain. 

"That's wonderful. I thought he wanted to go to Stanford?"

Dean pauses, and Castiel's stomach curdles as he realizes he's done it again: given away how much of Dean Winchester he's hoarded away, stored under lock and key. Not a single irrelevant detail has rusted with the winds of time. "Uh, he did for undergrad. Met Jessica Moore there, fell in love, the whole nine yards. She's enrolled in the PA program at UCLA, and Sammy didn't want to deal with long-distance, so...here we are."

No matter the charms of this Jessica, from what Castiel witnessed tonight, there must have been more drawing Sam to Los Angeles than just his beloved. Like his big brother, whose  _curl, tug, release_ ritual hasn't ceased. 

By the time Dean parks in the driveway of a modest one story home a few blocks from the hubbub of students, the path of oxygen to Castiel's lungs has shrunk to the size of a bendy straw, because he can't draw in more than tiny gulps of air. This is a terrible, idiotic, doomed idea. He hasn't been around a large group of people sober since...he can't even remember. What's he supposed to do, shake their hands and laugh at their jokes and pretend he's not sweating through his clothes?

Dean gets out of the car and rounds the front to Castiel's side, grunting until the folded and unyielding metal frame dislodges. He holds the door open and waits, and Castiel has the horrid urge to giggle, because Dean's opening his door like Castiel's his prom date. Dean's taps a dull rhythm against the window while Castiel places one foot and then the other on the driveway. Much too soon, he's trudging behind Dean, away from the car and last feasible means of escape. Of course, he can sprint down the street right now and keep running until his muscles flood with lactic acid and he tumbles into a homeless person's cart. 

They stop behind the doormat, which reads 'Home Sweet Home' in swirling cursive. The brown palm fibers are coming loose in places, and the double 'e' in Sweet is almost gone. This is a doormat that's seen many loving visitors and Castiel is most assuredly not one of them. 

Dean rings the doorbell and swats aside the dangling leaves of the potted plant beneath the mailbox. "Who the hell puts plants in front of their door? Best way to get bees and moths and a bunch of other winged shit."

Castiel scowls, anxiety temporarily forgotten in the wake of this blasphemy. "Bees aren't attracted to every plant, you know. And he'd be lucky if a few flew around his front yard. Any healthy agriculture needs bees."

"Until they bite ya," Dean counters. "Ain't gonna be so lucky then, huh?"

"Their 'bites' have been proven to ward off lethal doses of venom injected in mice after initial exposure of the bee sting in the immune system." 

Dean's lips quirk upwards, the sexy half-smile equally infuriating and enticing. "We're men. Not mice."

Oh, Castiel's well aware of how much of a man Dean is. His nerves stand at attention at his nearness, and his stomach tightens, forming a ribbed ball of desire traveling lower with every swipe of Dean's lips with his tongue, with his thumbs hooking into the belt loops at his waist, revealing tan belly. Dean's dressed in a worn leather jacket over a form-fitting black shirt and black uniform pants. At least he's not in full police officer uniform, because Castiel would need to loop his trench coat four times to hide his erection. He's already having a tough enough time. Eager dick doesn't know the difference between anger and arousal. 

"Then it's a good thing a bee sting isn't poisonous," Castiel replies lightly, adjusting the flaps of his coat strategically. "In fact, it's to a bee's disadvantage to sting anyone, given that the result is disembowelment and death."

Somehow the discussion on bees and stings is charged with a strange kind of tension, the kind that looses molten lava through Castiel's veins. He's overheated and discomfited, as if his clothes have shrunk three sizes in the last tens seconds, leaving him near naked and on display. 

"Seems like there's pain on both sides, then," Dean says, and moves a fraction closer to Castiel. His eyes drop to Dean's mouth, lips pink and pouting and slick from a few swipes of his tongue. "Better for both, probably, if they try to steer clear. Don't ya think?" Dean's leather and pine scent assault Castiel's senses, and he's close enough that if Castiel wanted, he could slide his hands up Dean's shirt, along his taut belly, or down, through his belt loop and into his boxers. 

The door swings open, and they both leap apart, Dean stumbling into the hanging branches of the potted plant. 

An astonishingly tall man greets them. His dark brown hair falls to his shoulders, framing a grinning face similar to the one currently grimacing opposite Castiel. This must be Sam. 

"Sorry it took so long, Garth put my remote in the microwave," Sam apologizes. His inquisitive gaze is trained on Castiel, warm and bright. From behind him, a voice goes, "I thought it was popcorn! I was watching TV, okay? It was a critical scene!"

Sam ignores him, extending his hand towards Castiel. "I'm Sam. You must be Dean's mystery friend."

Castiel bites down on his lip and swallows back the ironic laugh that almost burst free. He accepts Sam's calloused hand. "Mystery friend. That would be me."

If only Sam knew how truly mysterious it was.

 

**Dean**

Christ on a Popsicle, but Dean's about to strangle himself with the leafy branches of Sam's stupid potted plant.  

 _What the hell am I doing?_ If Sammy hadn't opened the door when he did, there's no guarantee Dean would've been able to fight the temptation to wedge his thumb between Cas's lips to give him something else to chew on-the infernal lip biting is driving Dean up the damn wall- while Dean dropped open-mouthed kisses over the column of Cas's throat and scratched blunt nails along Cas's stubbly jaw. And the way Cas was looking at him, with a spark of interest and rebellion, the same daring mischief that would end a lot of their arguments with one of them bent over a table or on their knees...well, Dean doesn't think he was imagining things. 

As it is, Dean is caught between relief at Sam's interruption and the desire to take a swing at the bastard. He settles on the latter when Sam shakes Cas's hand and shoots Dean a puzzled glance. "You okay? You're blushing."

Four heads swivel towards him, and Dean's cheeks warm further. He aims a murderous glare at Sam and elbows past him, into the heated and noisy apartment. "It's cold, bitch."

Sam snorts disbelievingly, ushering Cas over the threshold and shutting the door. "Not cold enough, jerk."

Benny waves at Cas and wanders back to the living room, claiming the hideous floral recliner. Garth is yammering about a werewolf show he's obsessed with and asking Cas if he subscribes to were-theories, does he believe in a moral grey area for were-creatures, and oh, what's his favorite animal? By the time Sam's physically dragging Garth to the couch, Cas brows have hit his hairline. 

Dean falls into step with Cas as they follow the other's into the living room. Their shoulders brush, and Dean pretends he's not paying attention to that when he leans in to say, "Sorry about Garth. Has a lot of philosophical opinions about werewolves."

Cas chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "I gathered."

Once Sam has Garth situated in front of the TV, he gestures for Cas and Dean to follow him into his tiny kitchen, which has barely enough room for one person, let alone three. Dean hovers behind the counter, tensing when Sam casually opens the fridge to pass Cas a beer. The last thing they need is Cas, drunk and angry and lashing out. The sight of Cas that night at the club, wasted, his emotions exposed for Dean and the world to see, hasn't faded from Dean's mind. 

Cas flicks the tab of the Bud Light speculatively, once, twice, before he sighs and returns it to Sam. "Thank you, but I'm on a hiatus from drinking for the time being."

 _He is_? Could it be because of what Dean said earlier? Probably not. He's giving himself entirely too much credit, like the egotistic fuckwit he is. Cas doesn't care what Dean thinks; not anymore. 

"Oh, sure," Sam tosses the can back into the fridge and peruses the contents speculatively. "Uh, don't have much to offer. Do you want bottled water, or..." he digs out two bottles, one the color of dehydrated urine and the other a muddy brown. "Yerba Matte? Kombucha?"

"You trying to poison him? The hell is that?" Dean intervenes, wrinkling his nose. Figures the only drink other than beer Sammy own looks like it dripped straight from Mother Nature's tits. Cas reaches for the drinks, holding them up to read the ingredients. 

Sam rolls his eyes. "The Kombucha is Jess's. It's fermented tea, and it tastes  _good_. Yerba tastes like mud, but it's loaded with caffeine so I drink it when I've got a lot of studying."

Dean shakes his head in mock disapproval. "What would Bobby say if he knew you'd abandoned your morals and jumped on the Hakuna Mattata bandwagon for a grade?"

"Yerba. Matte. Say it with me."

"Hakuna Matt _ata_."

Cas interrupts their bickering by handing both drinks back to Sam. "Loathe as I am to side with Dean, I think I'll have the bottled water."

"Ha!" Dean declares triumphantly. Sam delivers the bottled water and the three walk into the living room, where Benny is casually sitting on Garth, his elbow propped on a pillow over Garth's face. 

"Dude, don't kill my guests," Sam complains, shoving Benny off the writhing Garth. Garth clutches his nose and howls upon freedom. "He broke my nose!"

"Did no such thing," Benny grunts, flopping into the recliner and switching the channel. 

"Dean, arrest him!" 

Dean sighs. He invited Cas into a den of freaks. "Maybe later." He manhandles Garth so he gets the side of the couch without the broken springs under the cushion. He's acutely aware that Cas is still standing, hovering close to Sam and wringing the water bottle like it's done him a grave personal wrong. "Sit down, Cas." Dean pats the spot between him and Garth, a nice neutral location, far enough that their knees won't accidentally brush but near enough that Dean won't be antsy checking for Cas all evening. 

A brief hesitation later, Cas perches on the edge of the couch, sitting forward like a marathon runner taking his mark. Dean's plan to respect Cas's boundaries and maintain his sanity are fucked when Sam taps Cas's shoulder and scoots onto the couch, pushing Cas up against Dean. Their thighs are pressed together, and Cas hurriedly braces his elbows on his knees and leans forward, minimizing their shared space as much as possible. Dean tries not to be wounded, reminding himself it's for the best, but no amount of logic can talk away how right it feels to be this close to Cas. How much Dean's longed for it. 

"So how do you two know each other?" Sam quizzes, practically squishing Garth against the arm of the couch in an attempt to turn towards Cas. Benny's attention flickers away from the television and catches on them. Even Garth quits yapping about plastic surgery on his nose and tunes in. 

Cas pales. He glances toward Dean questioningly. "Um..."

Dean almost says it. Right here at Sammy's guys' night in front of his best friends', he almost confesses,  _'We met in college. He was my boyfriend for three years until I fucked it up."_ God, he can taste the words, just on the tip of his tongue.

But the mechanics of fear don't work like that. Dean forces his muscles to relax and throws his arm over the back of the couch, the picture of ease. "We went to college together. He was my English tutor. Ran into each other at Sammy's bachelor party."

A half-truth. A whole lie. 

There's no missing the flash of hurt across Cas's features before it smooths into cold nonchalance. He nods, tearing at the wrapper of his water. "Correct."

But apparently Cas isn't the only one in the room with a memory like a steel trap. Sam holds up a finger, forehead furrowing while his brain works. Dean's about to ask if he's constipated when Sam says, "Wait, what's your full name?"

"Castiel Novak?" Dean hates how Cas's voice wobbles, as if he's so out of place he can't even get a firm grasp on his own name. And it's because of Dean. He dragged him here only to spit on their relationship,  _again_. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but Dean's in hell and it's got nothing to do with good intentions and everything to do with his intrinsic, desperate need to hold onto Cas.

"Dude, Dean used to talk about you all the time. He said you saved his life, kept him from losing his football scholarship," Sam recalls. Cas straightens, bringing his shoulder and bicep flush against Dean. He's staring at Sam with abject disbelief. 

"Is that right?"

Sam nods vigorously while Dean resolutely stares at the swirling red mandala tapestry Jess tacked to the far wall. Don't mandalas turn back time or some shit? What kind of spell or blood sacrifice would he need to rewind time and free himself from this self-inflicted purgatory?

"Man, I kinda feel like I know you already," Sam chuckles. "How weird is it you went to school in Kansas but both ended up here? Did you get a job out here, Castiel? You were an English major, right?"

"Anyway," Dean cuts in at the same time that Cas says, "World Literature, actually."

Benny and Garth are watching the questions pinging around with an avid fascination that freaks the shit out of Dean. "What's with the third degree, Sammy? Thought this was guys' night."

Sam cheerfully goes on as if he's not on the brink of being murdered. "That's really cool! Jess's tried World Lit, but writing isn't her strong suit. Do you still write? Dean used to complain that you never let him read your work."

Defying possibility, Cas's eyes widen further, until they're two pools of baffled blue. "Um, yes, I still write. I'm private about my work." He quells that line of questioning with such practiced ease that Sam nods in understanding and a hint of admiration. Cas continues, still plucking at the label of the bottle and collecting the tattered pieces in his cupped palm. "I wasn't aware that Dean discussed this with you."

Dean freezes, but Sam is blessedly unaware of the charged undercurrent. "He never like, told me what you wrote about or anything. Don't worry. He's good at keeping secrets."

If Cas so much as blinks in Dean's direction, Dean'll hurl the contents of his lunch onto his shoes. Jesus, but Sammy is stepping on land mines left and right with his gigantic clown shoes. 

Cas smirks. "That he is."

The conversation turns to law school and Sam's experience, and Dean allows himself to breathe. He gets off the couch, unable to bear being near to Cas. Not if he has to keep fighting the impulse to smooth down Cas's wild hair. And especially not if he has to feel Cas's warmth through the thin fabric of his clothes without locking them in the Impala and sinking into that warmth. 

"Where are you going?" Sam calls. 

"Gettin' some air," Dean snaps. He stomps to the tiny 'balcony' to the right of their bedroom, which is chock-full of cleaning supplies and miscellaneous shit. Dean knocks aside a broom and leans against the railing. The cold settles him enough to wonder if leaving Cas alone with Rottweiler Sam was wise. 

A clatter behind him signals someone's arrival. "Fuckin' A," Benny grunts. His beer sloshes onto rusted spray cans at their feet. "Kill 'em to clean up out here?"

"It might. You see this neighborhood?" Dean gestures to their view of approximately three crumbling, aged buildings. The curb is littered with trash and empty bottles, and not a wall in the block doesn't boast graphite of some sort. "Why're you out here? Stalking me?"

"Nah, need a break from Garth. Fucker's talking about werewolves again."

Dean exhales. At least they're not on the topic of Dean's old habit of babbling about how peachy-keen Cas was to Sammy. "Them's the breaks."

They stand in comfortable silence, Benny's presence a reassuring anchor. Every time he's been around Cas, he's acted like an amnesia victim, unable to recall who he was or which part he was supposed to play. A terrible thought occurs to him. What if Cas felt like this for three whole years? Not knowing which role he belonged in, if he was Dean's tutor or Dean's fuck buddy or his boyfriend. 

Not his boyfriend. No, Dean had never let anything resembling true intimacy be on the table. 

If Dean's this suffocated and twitchy after a week, he can't fathom how Cas survived three years of limbo. 

"Alyssa Milano or Halle Berry?" Benny drawls. Dean's not in the mood for this friggin' game, but Benny won't stop listing women until Dean answers. 

"Berry." No wonder Cas snapped. After years of pretending and hiding, Dean had stretched Cas's patience like a rubber band.

"Boobs or ass?"

"Boobs." Cas clearly doesn't want anything to do with Dean. He has nothing new to offer him. The only difference between now and college is Dean's police badge, a symbol of courage and honor and dignity Dean's fought for on the streets to compensate for the places he truly lacks it. 

"Scarlett Johansson or Sophia Vergara?"

"Vergara." Even if things were different, it wouldn't change what Dean did to Cas. How he constantly battered their relationship, and the ugly way they ended things. Their history is irreversible, and it's only going to suck worse if he keeps finding excuses to get more of Cas.

"Portman or Novak?"

"Novak." Bringing a police case to a writer wasn't-wait a fucking minute. Slowly, Dean turns to stare at Benny, who's gazing serenely out at the poorly illuminated street. Cool as a cucumber, Benny takes a swig of his beer and shrugs a shoulder.

"That's what I thought." 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe.  
> I'm going on a trip abroad with two of my friends on Tuesday and I need to NOT yammer on about Destiel because there's a 100% chance I'll get sucker punched.  
>  Let me know how you felt about this chapter! 
> 
> -Jessa


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of the country which means an internet connection is a luxury. Bare with me with the uploads.  
> Flashback kinda ran longer than intended.

Chapter 11

SIX YEARS AGO

**Dean**

Keeping his hands flattened over Cas's eyes, Dean kicks the door of the Roadhouse shut behind him. It's eleven p.m on a Tuesday night, but he convinced Ellen to close two hours early so he could have the place for himself. His excuse was rambling and stuttered, something about hosting a group study session, a lame bundle of lies that Ellen didn't buy for a hot second. More likely, she thinks Dean's having an orgy with the university's dance team. But Ellen's seen him through broken bones, wisdom teeth removal, his botched driver's test (it wasn't his fault the instructor didn't know how to enunciate 'stop' and 'there's a biker!'), and most of Sammy's youth. She's his family, and he'd never risk the Roadhouse's license by having a party where freshman could sneak in and get plastered underage. Nah, what Dean's planned is risky in a whole 'nother way. 

"Dean," Cas complains, groaning when Dean flat-tires him again. He tries to bend and adjust his shoe, but Dean isn't budging. "I have a midterm tomorrow."

"You've already studied enough for the entire class," Dean returns distractedly. He's calculating the best angle to position Cas for maximum effect. Taking a gamble, he carefully backs Cas through the swinging door, so they're behind the counter. A wrong move could knock an entire shelf of booze to the floor.  Ellen would skin his hide. Thankfully, football's infused him with enough flexibility to keep Cas's sight obscured, avoid accidentally elbowing any liquor off the walls, and reach his free hand to the light switch underneath the framed photo of Dean, Sammy, and Jo, Ellen's daughter who lives with her Dad in California. He met the pretty blonde once, in seventh grade, and she'd kicked him in the 'nads for inviting her to make out in his dad's car. 

Dean flips on the light switch and drops his arms to his sides. Cas blinks, expression transforming from mildly bemused to awestruck. Dean doesn't bother to glance around with Cas and take in the view; he decorated the place himself. Took three hours of shopping across town and another two hours to get everything in place, but the delight on Cas's face is worth it. Dean watches Cas grin at the green balloons tied to the bar stools, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' scrawled messily across them in black marker. Six small boxes sit at each hole of the pool table, which is covered in confetti and streamers. Another tables has a variety of Cas's favorite desserts, and the last has a poorly wrapped present box. Cas rounds the bar and swipes a finger across the counter-top. "Is this glitter?"

"Golden glitter," Dean corrects. 

"Do you know how difficult it is to remove glitter? Ellen's going to murder you," Cas says, but he's grinning and the sight makes the potential of death by Ellen a lot less frightening. "It's worth it," Dean murmurs. "You're worth it. I'm sorry I couldn't-sorry I didn't, you know, do something more traditional. Take you out or something." He fumbles the apology, because what can he say? The publicity of their relationship, Dean's sexuality, these are all topics they avoid like the plague.

Cas reaches across the counter to cup Dean's cheek, tracing the smooth cut of Dean's cheekbone and smiling wistfully. "This is wonderful, Dean. Nobody's ever done anything like this for me. Thank you."

Dean turns his face into Cas's hand and presses a kiss to his palm. "C'mon, lemme show you what I got set up."

Rounding the bar, he leads Cas to the pool table and taps the tiny wrapped box at the first hole of six. "Open these counter-clockwise," he orders, hopping onto a nearby table to watch. Cas shoots him a suspicious glance but obeys, picking up the box and inspecting each side. It's December and cold as a snowman's balls, but Dean sloughs off his jacket and casts it aside.

Under Cas's trench coat, he's wearing a light gray sweater that-when Cas bends or twists at just the right angle-shows off his runner's abs and broad shoulders. His jeans hang low on his hips, and his hair's defying gravity again, sticking out around his head in a tussled halo of black. 

Basically, he looks good enough to eat, and Dean's rearing for a bite. 

"Would ya just open the box?" he exclaims when another two minutes pass with Cas gingerly unwrapping the box by picking at the tape in the corners. 

Cas frowns, not appreciating the interruption, but tears the remainder of the wrapping paper fluttering to the floor. Dean watches him pull out the folded note and forces himself to keep breathing evenly. 

Cas's gaze scrolls to the bottom of the note and then back up to repeat. Is he reading it twice? Jesus, what if Dean misspelled something? Cas isn't his tutor anymore, but the guy's brilliant. Not embarrassing himself around Cas is hard enough, but if he finds out he spelled 'definitely' wrong again, he might just gather all the balloons and float into space. 

"'For the way you listen'," Cas reads aloud. His brows furrow with confusion. "Huh?"

Dean points. "Counter-clockwise."

Perplexed but curious, Cas follows Dean's instruction to the next box. He doesn't waste time trying to save the wrapping this time and has the note out in no time. "'For your friggin' gigantic vocabulary and how you use it'." He moves to the next and picks it up too fast, dropping it to the pool table. The closer Cas gets to the last box, the more Dean's instinct to flee makes itself known. Gritting his teeth, he quells it as Cas continues, "'For your Maybelline sex-hair'. Maybelline is a make-up brand, Dean."

"Close enough."

Cas snorts and works through the rest, getting closer to Dean with each step around the table. "'For the way you chew your lip when you're writing or nervous.'" He glances up at Dean. "I thought you hate it when I do that."

"Only because the only person abusing that mouth should be me."

He gets an eye-roll for that one, but Dean doesn't miss the tips of Cas's ears go pink. "As you wish, Mr. Grey."

"The fuck is Mr.Grey? Read the next one."

Obliging, Cas opens the fifth box and unfolds the note. "'For your patience and your trust'."

Cas picks up the sixth and last box, and Dean's really sweating now. He adjusts on the table and once again pummels down the urge to bolt. Although Cas unwraps the box in less than ten seconds, they go by like an eternity. Dean rakes his hand through his hair, resting his clenched fist at the base of his neck. 

"'For all these reasons and for so many more, I-," Cas stops and clears his throat. When he speaks, there's a quiver in his voice. "'For all these reasons and so many more, I love you.'"

The Roadhouse is silent except for the crinkle of paper as Cas tucks the note with the others in the pocket of his trench coat. His back is to Dean. 

 _Shit_. He knew this was dumb, shouldn't have said anything, should've sucked it up and kept it to himself. Shouldn't be making any declarations to Cas when he can't throw him a proper birthday in the daytime, with friends and family. Shouldn't have-

Cas whirls around and kisses Dean, his cheeks damp with tears. Dean pitches off the table, and Cas gasps in pain when his spine hits the pool table. Dean throws his arms around Cas's waist and winces in sympathy. Cas is still clutching the collars of Dean's button-up blue shirt. He rests his forehead against Dean's and chuckles softly. "Ouch."

"Ouch," Dean repeats. "Why are you crying, Cas?" His question is barely audible. He's not sure he wants the answer.

"Because I love you, too, Dean Winchester," Cas says matter-of-factly. "And I've been having a bitch of a time figuring out when to clue you in."

Dean can't help it; he laughs, a mixture of blissful relief and joy. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Cas hugs Dean tightly, surrounding him in Cas's warmth and the scent of rain and ink that always accompanies him. Dean relaxes against him, because like when Dean's worried he won't pass a class, when he freaks that he won't get into a decent business school, and when John died, the safest place for Dean to go was right here. 

"We're such saps," Dean groans, untangling himself but taking Cas's hand into his. "It's your twenty-first birthday, sonny, gotta open presents."

"Sonny? You're only two months older," Cas says, but follows Dean to the table with the actual wrapped presents. "And there's more?"

"Duh. That wasn't your gift."

"It certainly felt like it."

Dean's grin is stupid happy, but he commands, "Can the sap and open your gifts so we can get naked on the floor."

"If you think I'm having sex on the floor of a bar, this gift better be my weight in gold." The idea of dirty floor sex must not bother Cas as much as he claims, because he practically dismembers the wrapping paper in his hurry. When he's done, he gazes at the gift, lips parted. He exhales softly and picks up an ebony leather journal, complete with intricate Latin engravings on the cover. The inside isn't lined, blank for drawing or diagonal scribbles or whatever people use journals for. The other journal is an artsy thing he noticed Cas eyeing online a few weeks earlier.

"The first one can be for your writing, for inspiration or capturing your muse or whatever the kids are calling it. The second one is for your thoughts, I guess," Dean elaborates. Cas is palming the notebooks and gazing at Dean with an unreadable look, so Dean keeps right on babbling. "Technically, both are for your thoughts, since writing thoughts and thought thoughts are from the same brain. You want a drink? I want a drink. Let's drink." 

 _Thought thoughts? SAME BRAIN?_ Dean needs the stiffest drink in the fucking house. Cas hasn't budged, so Dean sifts through the tatters of wrapping paper to the last item at the bottom. "And this pen reminded me of you. The clicker looks like a halo, see? And there's the letter 'C' right here."

Cas spares the pen a fleeting glance, and now Dean's worry is morphing to concern. "Cas, you okay?"

No answer. Cas holds the notebooks tight against his chest and shakes his head slowly. "No. I'm not okay. Nothing's okay, Dean."

"Why? Is it the presents?"

"No. The presents are...they're the best presents. I'll cherish them, and think about you each time I flip the page."

"Then what is it?"

"You don't want to know," Cas snaps, the aggressive shift in tone forcing Dean a step back. "It's not a permissible topic."

Irritation and a healthy dose of paranoia accompany Cas's declaration. "Don't fucking tell me what I want."

Cas caresses the notebook covers and sighs. "I don't want to fight.

"Tough. What don't I want to know?"

A hard glance shuts down the topic, at least on Cas's part. "Don't play dumb, Dean. And don't open a can of worms you're not prepared to handle."

Dean bites his tongue to keep from lashing out and saying something he'll regret. It's Cas's birthday, and anyway, he's right. There's a million and one ways Cas can call Dean on his bullshit, and Dean's not any more ready to defend himself now then he was when he first kissed Cas. "Fine."

Disappointment flashes across Cas's features, but he's settling the books on the table before Dean can process it. Cas shrugs off his trench coat, dropping it to the linoleum floor. His sweater is quick to follow and he's in the middle of unbuttoning his pants before Dean catches up. "What're you doing?"

Cas's smile is teasing, tempting, no trace of the resentful sorrow that was there a moment ago. "Getting naked."

Now this is territory Dean's comfortable with. He follows suit rapidly, their clothes forming a small pile on the ground. Cas lays his trench coat on the floor like a blanket, slides his boxers down his thighs, and flicks them off his ankle. He's already half-hard, the sight of his slightly curved, thick pink cock making Dean's mouth water. 

"Does the birthday boy want to sign for this package?" Dean rumbles, dropping his hand to his own dick and giving it one slow, thorough pump. 

"After that line, I don't think I'll ever have another erection." Cas pretends to check his cock before hungrily reaching for Dean's. "Guess not."

Dean seals Cas's smiling mouth with his own, pulling his hot body flush against him. He drags them to the hard floor, protected only by Cas's trench coat, which slips and slides under their knees, but Dean isn't paying attention. He slides his tongue in and out of Cas's mouth in a wet, leisurely rhythm, only stopping to murmur, "Happy birthday, Cas."

Cas trails his hands up Dean's back to the nape of his neck, guiding Dean's mouth back to him. "I love you, Dean."

And while Dean is too consumed by tasting Cas to return it, he makes love to him on the cold, slippery floor and hopes Cas's moans and whimpers mean that he knows what Dean meant to say was,  _I love you, too._

PRESENT

**Castiel**

It's almost two in the morning when Dean slaps Sam's shoulder and bids the group goodnight. Castiel's in the middle of a riveting conversation on the reproductive rituals of wolves with Garth-who was revealed to be a zoologist earlier -at the time, but he stands up immediately. Benny's unconscious on the armchair, a patched quilt thrown over his sleeping form. 

"You guys should spent the night. It's too late to drive home," Sam insists, but he may as well be negotiating with a brick wall. Dean jerks his chin for Castiel to head towards the door, and while he's not fond of being told what to do, Castiel is more than ready to go home. He loiters by the door while Sam tries and fails to persuade Dean to stay.

"I'm a cop, Sammy," Dean interjects, punching his brother's arm good-naturedly. "I've got my gun in the car."

Castiel's jaw drops. Dean has a gun in the car? The Impala, the car they'd driven here in is carrying a locked and loaded weapon? 

Sam shakes his head, but acquiesces, oblivious to Castiel's churning stomach. "Alright. Text me when you get home."

"Sure," Dean drawls unconvincingly. Both of them glance at Castiel, who has to unlock his jaw to produce a polite, if queasy, smile. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Sam."

Sam shakes Castiel's hand vigorously, friendliness and more than a little curiosity on his face. "Anytime, man. You made Dean's company almost bearable."

"Eat me." Dean purposely bumps Sam on his way out the door. Aside from the brotherly violence, Dean's been a statue all evening. Once he returned from the balcony, Benny in tow, he'd flopped onto the couch, switched to a sports game, and eaten seventy percent of the offered snacks on the table. Unless prompted, he didn't engage in conversation. The only logical explanation for his behavior is that he regrets bringing Castiel and can't be himself in his presence. Which only serves to fuel Castiel's gun-induced nausea with irritation. It isn't like Castiel  _wanted_ to come to Dean's brother's guys' night. He was manipulated into it, and for what? For Dean to ignore him and brood in front of the television?

After bidding them goodbye a second time, Sam shuts the door. He's alone with Dean, and the semblance of socially-acceptable energy vanishes, leaving Castiel weary and burned out. He stops a good distance from the Impala and crosses his arms over his chest. "Where's your gun?"

Dean stops, poised to slide into the driver's seat, and raises his brows. "Why?" His confusion clears before Castiel can respond, and he's exasperated when he says, "Cas, it's in my holster, safety on, inside the glove compartment. It's not going to go off or get stolen or anything."

"I don't like guns."

"I know."

"I would've appreciated being told I was within touching distance of one."

"My sincerest apologies. Can you get in the car?"

It's only because Dean appears two minutes away from slumping to the ground that Castiel gives in, yanking the gnarled metal apart with ease and slamming the door shut behind him. The engine hums, the only disturbance to the compact quiet in the car. 

Castiel reaches forward and pops open the glove box. Like Dean said, the gun is snug within a black holster, only the grip visible from the gun itself. 

"Shooting me is more paperwork than it's worth," Dean jokes. 

"Can I touch it?" Castiel inquires. His trepidation has transformed to morbid intrigue, because how many times does a person get to touch a police officer's gun? He's a writer, and while his books tend towards dark romance, someday a gun might make an appearance, and it would greatly enhance the quality of his writing to have the sensory feel of an actual firearm. 

Or so he tells himself, anyway. He hazards a glance at Dean and finds him scrutinizing Castiel. He's anticipating a firm 'no', but Dean throws him for a loop by reaching over Castiel and picking up the gun. It's too dark to see clearly, and Castiel fumbles with his phone's flashlight, aiming the painfully bright beam towards the gun. Dean weighs it for a second. "Can't just touch a gun, Cas. What if it's loaded?"

"Is it?"

"Yes." Dean unsheathes the gun from the holster. It's got a grey handle and black top, with multiples switches and minuscule buttons. He taps the butt of the gun and twists with a  _click-clunk_ that drops a long vertical bar onto his lap. "That's the magazine. Now you can touch it." He deposits the magazine in the cup holder and holds the gun out to Castiel. 

Even without the magazine, the gun is much heavier than Castiel imagined it would be. He traces along the deadly metal and marvels that it's cool to the touch, despite the fact that the bullet it produces can burn right through human flesh. He's holding a weapon, Dean's weapon. 

"Have you ever shot it?" Castiel asks. Dean's backing out of Sam's driveway into the street and doesn't answer right away. Castiel turns the barrel of the gun upwards, gazing into the empty, narrow hole where a bullet could fly out and end him. This could be the last thing a person sees before they die. 

"Once," Dean answers belatedly, drawing Castiel from his disturbing musings. "I've only shot the gun once."

Castiel swallows back his questions and nods in the dark, continuing his inspection. Dean sighs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and darting a glance towards Castiel. "You can ask."

"You don't have to tell me if it's private."

"It was a domestic disturbance. I was still partners with Jo at the time, but that night I was on my own. Someone radioed in the domestic, and I was closest to the house." Despite the fact that Dean is sitting right next to Castiel with ten fingers and ten toes, warm and breathing and alive, Castiel can't help the dread curling in his belly as Dean recounts his tale. The freeway is almost completely empty, but Dean's driving ten below the speed limit, coasting down the dimly lit lanes.

"I answered the call and did the routine, knocking on the door, announcing myself, you know. Nobody answered, but I could hear noises coming from inside, shuffling and whispering. Something about it didn't sit right in my gut, so I went round to the back door. It was glass, so I could see into the house pretty clearly. First thing I see is a guy pointing a gun at this woman sitting on the ground, holding a kid in her arms and crying. I kicked in the door and ordered the guy to lower his weapon. He was screaming, waving that thing around, aiming at the woman and the kid. I took 'im down with a shot to the chest and radioed in for medical assistance. The chick was freaking out cause her son was bleeding from a head wound. The sonuvabitch backhanded him with the gun." Dean stops and exhales, clenching his fingers convulsively around the steering wheel. "Anyway, the husband-name was Dick, can you believe that?- gets hauled, and I go with Lisa and her son, Ben, to the hospital."

Castiel doesn't realize he's holding his breath hostage until it escapes, along with, "Was Ben okay? What happened to Dick?"

"Ben was fine. Head wounds usually look worse than they are cause they bleed a ton. Dick was fine, too, after a lot of bitching. Tried to sue, sicced Internal Affairs on me sayin' it wasn't a clean shot, but he's serving his sentence now."

"Wow," Castiel mumbles. He can appreciate the gun in a whole new light. This gun saved Lisa and Ben. Wait, no-strike that. Dean used this gun to save Lisa and Ben. Dean's the hero, not this thing. "That's amazing, Dean."

"Just doin' my job."

"Yeah, well, you did a damn good one." Carefully, Castiel returns the gun into the holster and places the magazine beside it in the glove compartment. Dean can reload it later, when Castiel isn't around to worry if it'll explode in his face. 

"Thanks, Cas," Dean whispers, and there's a soft gratitude in his tone that hurts Castiel, though he can't say why. Like earlier in the evening (was that only today? It feels like a century ago) when he'd wondered if something more menacing than traffic kept Dean from coming to retrieve the files, it dawns on Castiel that Dean's life is on the line every day. The pictures of the murder victims, lurking insidiously in the murky waters of Castiel's nightmares, resurface. And then it's not the face of the teenage girl or the old man-it's Dean. It's Dean, vibrant green eyes lifeless and blank, his strong and active body limp. Castiel shudders, a full body shudder that rattles him to the very core. 

Dean stops in front of Castiel's building and shifts into park. This is Castiel's cue to bid Dean a hasty goodbye and disappear into his building, secure in the knowledge that this blast from the past is well and truly done. That's what he's wanted, right? So why is it that instead of being gratified that he might never see Dean again, he feels like leaving this seat will shred him in two?

"You know, I should walk you inside. Sketchy neighborhood. Can't be too safe," Dean says. He's out of the car before Castiel can scowl at the implication that he can't take care of himself. Castiel is quick to follow, and they walk slowly through the entrance of his building and towards the stairs, an unspoken rule directing them from the 20's era elevator. 

"The neighborhood's not too bad. Real estate is cheap," Castiel informs Dean. 

"Real estate is cheap  _because_ the neighborhood's bad," Dean refutes, tumbling a  pile of Tootsie-roll wrappers at the top of Castiel's floor. "Combo deal, dude."

Castiel shrugs. "It suits me." They arrive at Castiel's door much too soon, and Castiel pretends to fiddle with his keys. 

Dean leans against the wall, and despite the unflattering orange beams of the hall light, his beauty brings Castiel to despair, which inevitably leads to bitterness rearing it's ugly head. "Can't always get what you want, can you, Dean?"

Dean's gaze doesn't waver from Castiel's, trapping him within their depths. "Preaching to the choir, Cas."

"How's that, exactly?" Castiel snaps. His reaction is over the top, his rage coming from seemingly nowhere, but he's not going to fight it. Not when it might prolong his rapidly dwindling time with Dean.

Why the thought of Dean walking away makes something inside him break- well, he's not going to dwell on that. 

"You're not the only one who can't always get what he wants," Dean says, voice low and tight. 

Can he...he can't mean what Castiel thinks. How can he? And if he does, if he does mean what Castiel thinks-hopes-he means, then how fucking dare he?

He crowds Dean, violating his personal space, stepping close enough to see the rings of green in his eyes give way to black as his pupils dilate at Castiel's proximity. He's close enough to see the moisture glisten on Dean's lips when his tongue swipes over them. 

"Stop that," Dean growls. "Stop looking at me like that and back the fuck up. Before I do something we both regret."

There's no mistaking the tension straining Dean's muscles as anything but desire.

He wants Castiel.

The knowledge robs Castiel of any remaining self-control. He might not know what's hiding behind those piercing eyes, whether the words off his silver tongue are truth or lies, but how to make Dean moan, scream his name? 

Now that's a language Castiel is fluent in. 

Castiel smirks, defiant. "No." And then it's easy, too easy, to fist Dean's jacket and slam him against the door. Practically instinct to wedge a thigh between Dean's legs and taste those perfect pink lips that have been taunting him all night. Dean's mouth opens under him instantly, tongue meeting Castiel's in a wet slide, warm and wet and intoxicating. 

There's nothing gentle about this kiss. Castiel bites and nips and demands. Dean grinds down on Castiel's thigh, jerking his hips against the fabric of Castiel's pants. Castiel's cock hardens, thickening uncomfortably against his zipper. Jesus, Castiel won't ever get enough of this, enough of Dean.

But he has to. He needs to scratch this itch, sink into Dean's body and fuck this heated rage, this agonizingly longing, fuck it right out of his system. 

"Cas," Dean gasps, breaking from Castiel's mouth long enough to aim a wide-eyed and wild look at him. There's hardly a hint of green visible behind Dean's blown pupils, and Castiel revels in it. "Cas, what the hell?"

Castiel releases one hand from Dean's jacket to the door handle of his apartment. The other hand shoves Dean's shirt aside so Castiel can suck and lick at Dean's collarbone. He has the sudden, inappropriate thought that if his crotchety neighbor were to catch him, he'd probably be arrested for indecent exposure.

Good thing its a cop who's shamelessly humping Castiel's leg.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean moans, and Castiel drags his teeth to the junction of Dean's shoulder and throst before lifting his head to leer.

"That's the plan." 

With a twist of his wrist, he pushes open the door, catching Dean before he can sprawl on the floor.

He kicks the door shut behind them, pitching them into darkness. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language and abuse.  
> Also made some Mary mistakes sorry

Chapter 13

**Dean**

Castiel's hold on Dean’s arm is pure iron. Dean’s blind in the pitch black apartment, but Cas navigates with ease, avoiding ridges and upturned corners of the floorboards. As Dean’s vision adjusts to the darkness, he briefly makes out Cas’s kitchen before they turn down a short hallway. There’s a narrow door that’s either to a supply closet or a bathroom, but Cas bypasses that, to the last door on the right.

It’s his bedroom, illuminated by the moonlight streaming from the four-paned window above a circular fading floral-pattern ottoman. The rest of the wall is taken up by an enormous mahogany bookshelf, lined with paper and hardcover spines that Dean’s tempted to run his fingers over. He wonders if Cas still reads obscure Russian literature before bed, glasses high on his nose and a glass of water on his bedside table. Does he still fall asleep with the book sprawled open on his chest, glasses askew? Does he have someone to gently remove the glasses, lay them on top of the book on the table?

He glances at Cas, who’s unhooking his watch from his wrist and kicking off his shoes. This is a terrible idea. Hate-fucking Castiel Novak, love of Dean’s pathetic life, is akin to stuffing the muzzle of a gun in his mouth and placing Castiel’s finger on the trigger.

"Get on the bed, Dean,” Cas orders.  
Dean attempts one last ditch effort to infuse reason into the situation, despite the protests of his throbbing dick. “I should go.”

"I said, get on the bed.”

Dean pretends his blood doesn’t heat at the power humming from Cas. “Listen, I’m just tryin’ to keep you from hatin’ yourself once this over.”

Castiel’s laugh is short and unamused. “Hit the ceiling on hating myself a long time. This is the last time I’m going to repeat myself: get on the bed.”

His northern brain is horrified at the idea that Cas hates himself-in no small part thanks to Dean- and doesn’t care anymore, but the southern hemisphere responds to Cas in a way that’s solely animal.

Dean gets on the bed, kicking off his shoes as he goes. He gives it another go. “We shouldn’t be doing this, dude.” And yet Dean is desperate for it anyway.

Castiel’s jaw works. When he speaks, it’s to dig Dean’s wounds deeper, each precise, cold word slicing through him like knives. “You shouldn’t have found my address. You shouldn’t have brought me to meet Sam. You shouldn’t be ashamed of the fact that you like dick. Many things shouldn’t be, Dean, but here we are.”

Rising to his knees on the bed, Dean’s level with Cas’s nose. He shoves the other man, rocking him back on his heels. Anger and hurt drum through him. “You don’t get to fucking judge me, Cas. You knew from the start what you were getting, I warned you that I was a goddamn mess, and you picked me anyway. Don’t lay blame on my shoulders for your decisions.”

Before Dean’s finished, his arms are being wrestled and pinned to the bed, Cas’s heavy weight strewn on his body. Cas shifts, bracketing Dean’s hips with his legs, and lowers his mouth to Dean’s ear, hot breath sending goosebumps up Dean’s arm. “You’re right. I made my own mistakes back then, and I’m going to make them now.”

 **Castiel**  
Dean whimpers beneath him, hips arching upwards, seeking friction, seeking Castiel. Castiel drops wet, open-mouthed kisses along the exposed skin of Dean’s throat, swiping his tongue for a taste of the hollow above his sternum. When Dean’s wriggling threatens to dislodge Castiel, he places a firm grip on the fabric covering Dean’s length, giving Dean a shallow surface to thrust against.

“Cas, please,” Dean moans. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Need to feel you, need you.”

A dark little thrill races through Castiel. He loves having this much power over Dean. Loves having him at Castiel’s mercy.

“Tell me what you want, Dean. I might just give it to you.”

Dean’s eyes, which had been screwed shut, flash open, startling Castiel. Something passes over Dean, and then Castiel finds himself flipping through the air, back pressed where Dean had lain not a second earlier.

“You give too much,” Dean whispers, poised over him. His hair is disheveled, mouth plump from the siege Castiel laid upon his lips. Castiel wants to unravel every lovely string tying Dean Winchester together, until he’s an unwoven, panting mess on Castiel’s bed. “And I take too much. Gonna change that. Not gonna take from you anymore, Cas, just give. Give you what you deserve.”

Dean combs his hands through Castiel’s mussed hair, and the sensation of blunt nails scraping his scalp is so achingly familiar that Castiel shudders. Dean stops for a hard, drugging kiss and lowers his hands to Castiel’s zipper. The soft rasp of the sliding zipper flips a switch, and suddenly Dean is only too eager, too urgent in shoving Castiel’s pants and boxers to Castiel’s ankles. Castiel twists, nearly smacking his elbow against the headboard in an effort to loose the clothing from around his feet. He succeeds just in time for Dean to straddle his thighs and wrap a strong hand around Castiel’s cock.

“Shit, Dean,” Castiel gasps. Dean leans his forearm against Castiel’s narrow hip, securing him to the mattress. He’s staring at Castiel’s cock like it’s the light on the other side of the tunnel. Shit, it's driving Castiel insane. He removes his hand from Castiel’s dick, much to his aggravation, to tap three fingers against Castiel’s mouth. Requesting entrance.  
Castiel sucks each of Dean’s fingers obediently, working his tongue over the rough calluses and laving the offered fingers until Dean’s satisfied.

Dean spits in the palm of his hand, adding his contribution, before dropping his slick hand to slowly pump Castiel’s dick. “Oh, oh,” Castiel cries, stomach muscles clenching with the instinct to thrust. But he stops himself with difficulty.  Dean’s forearm flexes, keeping Castiel down. Dean swipes his thumb across Castiel’s cockhead, chuckling when a broken sound rips from Castiel’s throat. “Like that, do you?”

Pearls of pre-come seep from the slit of Castiel’s cockhead, and Dean smears it along Castiel’s cock and tightens his fist to the point of pain. The hot hold is too much, and Castiel renews his efforts to arch into Dean’s hand.  
“You’re fucking beautiful, Cas, you know that?” Dean growls, raising his pre-come wettened thumb to his lips and sucking it between the plump pink lips that Castiel is going to fuck into like a damn savage the minute Dean slips and loosens his restricting arm. “God, look at you. You wreck me.”

The part of Castiel that isn’t currently trying to free itself to plunge into Dean’s body like a heat-seeking missile shivers at Dean’s hoarsely uttered confession.

Then Dean’s mouth closes around Castiel’s cock, a hot and wet glove, and Castiel can’t think of anything that isn’t the raw pleasure coursing through his veins. Dean knows how to work him, mouth chasing his fist as he jerks Castiel off. It's been at least six months since Castiel's last been touched by another person, but Dean scorches the slate clean, leaving Castiel helpless beneath him.

Dean switches, using his hand to palm Castiel’s balls, squeezing lightly, and swallows down Castiel’s length until his eyes are watering. When he lifts his head, a string of saliva connects him to Castiel’s swollen dick. He mouths along Castiel’s balls, nuzzling the heavy sacks until Castiel’s cursing and writhing, incoherent sounds he didn’t know he was capable of making filling the room.

“Unghhhh, yes, yes, don’t stop,” he pants. One of Dean’s fingers brushes along his puckered hole, ever-so-lightly, and Cas’s hips jack-knife off the bed, dislodging Dean’s arm.

Knowing his time frame is short or maybe just rightfully worried that Castiel might maul him, Dean wraps his mouth around Castiel’s slick cock and bobs his head with newfound intent. The unrelenting heat and pressure of Dean’s mouth, the sight of Dean, hair wild from Castiel’s clawing fingers, as he moves over Castiel’s lap, is too much.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps in warning, yanking at Dean’s hair with more force than is probably wise. “Come, _ahhh_ Dean can’t hold _unghhhh_ shit, can’t hold on.” A primitive urge coaxes Castiel to pour himself on Dean’s face, his chest, down his throat. Mark him and make him Castiel’s. It’s by a hairsbreadth that he doesn’t do just that.

Instead of drawing back, Dean reups his efforts until his pretty mouth rests on the base of Castiel’s cock and his throat is swallowing in little gulps around the thick cock shoved inside it.

Castiel howls his release. Dean pumps him through it and swallows every drop of the salty fluid. Castiel’s hands fist and pull at the sheets, toppling a pillow onto the bedside table and clattering something to the floor.

When Dean’s wrung out the last of Castiel’s orgasm, Castiel melts into the mattress, hair matted to his sweaty forehead. Logically, he’s perfectly aware that right about now, he should be self-flagellating like nobody’s business. He should be tying a bow around this incident and shoving it in the damp dungeon of regret that’s almost exclusively cluttered with mementos starring Dean.

Instead, Castiel laughs. “You might be a huge jackass, but you sure know how to give good head.”

The bed shifts with Dean’s weight. As relaxed as the post-orgasmic haze has made him, Castiel still tenses. “Learned from the best,” Dean replies, and Castiel’s muscles loosen again.

"I was one hell of a tutor.”  
A beat as Castiel berates himself for the poor joke, and then Dean chuckles. “That you were.”

Something urgent occurs to Castiel. He sits up too fast and his head spins. “You didn’t…take off your pants.” A remarkably infantile way of reminding Dean that he hasn’t gotten off. As if Dean might have forgotten.

"Yep.” Aside from his finger-fucked hair, Dean looks put together and neat. Meanwhile, Castiel’s sweat is cooling on his skin and the only reason there isn’t cum all over his sheets is because Dean had swallowed every last drop. A memory Castiel is likely to extract when he’s alone.

"Why not? Do you not…want to?” He hates how wobbly and insecure he sounds. The appalled glance Dean sends his way is decidedly rude. “’Course I want to. Nearly came in my pants like a damn teenager just from touching you. But not tonight. Later, if you decide you want to do this again, my pants won’t stay on.”

Later. As in more of this. The thought thrills Castiel, igniting him in ways that have been dormant for a while. But caution is quick to follow. Getting in a physical relationship with Dean is numbskull levels of idiotic. Certainly, the man may give him the best orgasms of his life, and he might make Castiel’s heart kick to life just by being in the same room. But inviting him for a repeat performance would be like tearing open a barely healed wound and sprinkling salt over the cut.  
“That wouldn’t be wise.”

“Because you hate me, right?” Dean says, sounding resigned and not all that surprised.

N _ot at all. It’s because I can’t hate you, no matter how you hurt me. If I could hate you, this would be so simple_.

“We’re toxic to each other, Dean.”

“I know.”

They sit there, Dean’s shoulders bowed, head hanging. Castiel wants more than anything to hook his chin over Dean’s shoulder and kiss his jaw, wrap his arms around his torso and hold him. The frustration burns anew, the old ‘Why’ series. Why can’t he allow himself to be happy with Castiel? Why does he hold himself at arms length from the people who care about him? Why couldn’t Dean just choose Castiel, just once?

Dean stands, slipping on his shoes. He searches for something in the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a crumpled receipt. Using the pen on Castiel’s bedside table-because what writer doesn’t have pen and paper accessible at all times?- he scrawls something on the slip of paper and lets it flutter onto Castiel’s worn copy of Wuthering Heights.  
He taps the book with his index finger. “If you change your mind, that’s my address. Just sex, nothing that’ll go toxic.”

Castiel’s brow furrows at Dean’s logic-because sex is the base ingredient of toxic-but he’s too busy wrestling with the surge of relief welling in his chest. Dean’s not saying goodbye, but he should be. Castiel should be kicking him out and bolting the door in his wake.

Dean’s eyes crinkle in the corners as he smiles. “’Night, Cas,” he says, and walks out. The front door shuts behind him a moment later.

Castiel flops back onto the mattress. The ceiling is peeling from water damage, yellow circles of retained moisture dotting the surface. He studies each in turn before giving in to his body and curling on his side. He’s briefly alarmed that he forgot to lock his front door after Dean. Then again, there’s a twisting lock on the doorknob that Dean in all his police-officer protectiveness likely twisted. The deadbolts can wait.

His searching hand finds the crumpled receipt from a Stop n’ Go station with Dean’s information and clutches it to his chest.  
He should burn it, flush it down the toilet, stick it into the garbage disposal.  
What he does is close his fingers tighter around it and fall asleep.

**Dean**

One time, when Dean was no older than six, seven years old, his father was sitting on the porch steps of the house, a half-empty beer next to him. The sun was setting over the town, slowly receding rays of light casting a long shadow over John Winchester’s imposing figure. He’d picked up the bottle and raised it to his lips, catching sight of Dean on the bottle’s descent. “Come sit down, kiddo.”

Dean wouldn’t admit it, but John scared him. Sure, he loved him, craved his approving smiles and congratulatory pats on the back, but he winced whenever he heard John’s car door close, announcing his arrival. He was always tense whenever his mother and father were in the same room together before Mom died, anticipating raised voices and hurled insults. When that began, they wouldn’t notice Dean’s small shape sneaking towards John and removing anything heavy or sharp he might throw. He’d never laid a hand on Mary, but it made Dean feel better to know there was nothing close at hand should his temper ever flare out of control.

Dean sat beside his father, and they watched the sky glow blood orange with the sun’s daily death. “Your brother asleep?” John asked.

  
“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Dean grew antsy. His favorite cartoon was coming on in a few minutes, and he wanted to get to the remote before Sam woke up and needed to be fed. But he stayed put, since John hadn’t given him permission to leave.

“Would you miss me if I left, Dean?”

Dean blinked. “Y-yes. Are you leaving, Dad?”

John maintained his stare at the horizon, taking another pull of his beer. “I don’t know, son. Don’t wanna leave you kids, but your Aunt Ellen and Bobby are making my life real hard, Dean. Think you could talk to them for me, tell 'em you’d miss me if I left?”

Tears gather in the corner of Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t want his Dad to go. He scares Dean, but he needs him. “I’ll talk to her. I promise. They won’t make you go, Daddy.” Dean winces. John’s snapped at Dean that ‘Daddy’ is for little girls, not for a grown-up boy like Dean, but John simply nods absently.

“Yeah, you do that.”

Later, when Dean was sixteen, John had come to sit at the foot of Dean’s bed while Dean sifted through his clean long socks and Sammy's school uniforms. He'd normally did a few loads a week with how much dirty clothes Dean produced from football and Sammy produced from...well, Dean wasn't sure how a middle-schooler dirtied himself up this much. 

Naturally, Dean tenses when the bed depresses with his father’s weight, but he continues folding his socks. “Did you talk to Bobby, kid?” John starts.

"Yeah. He won’t take out a third loan on the garage, Dad. Not much I can say to persuade him.” Dean hadn’t tried, not really. It was so common for John to use Dean as a pawn in his fights that Dean had long ago laid down arms. “He didn’t want to hear it from me, anyway.”

“This is your future business, too. He's  gotta hear from you, ain’t no other option. Sammy’s too young to talk sense into him, so it’s up to you, Dean.”  
I _was younger than Sam when you heaped this shit on my shoulders_ , Dean wants to shout. _Why didn’t you care then? Why is Sammy’s peace of mind worth more than mine?_

Dean doesn’t say any of it. His absolute worst nightmare is for his kid brother to get dragged into the dirty politics of John Winchester. Somehow John was always fighting with someone new, and it was up to Dean to mediate. 

“How’s that girl you been dating? Hester, Helga, somethin’ like that?”

“She’s fine.” Dean purposely neglects to mention that they’ve been broken up for two months.

“Fine girl. Gotta watch out, though, Dean. Can’t trust people nowadays. She’ll get you nice and cozy under her thumb and snap your neck.”

Given that Dean hasn’t been interested in a soul since he dumped Hester-who’d broken up with him for ‘not giving a shit about me or anyone else, Dean Winchester!’-he’s not too worried. “I’ll keep it in mind, Dad.”

And he did.

Not more than four months later, Dean let Gadreel Harris suck his dick in a school supply closet. Gadreel, an outcast amongst the elitist student population, spared no time in telling anyone and everyone who would listen that he’d blown the star quarterback, renown ladies man in a damp closet. He showed them the abrasions on his knees from when Dean had grown impatient and fucked Gadreel’s mouth.

Nobody believed him, of course. The football team tormented him, beating him to a bloody pulp. Said they’d never believe a fairy, a filthy fag, over Dean. And Dean had rolled his football socks into his bag and watched disinterestedly.

The gossip was far-reaching, however, and when Dean drove him at the end of the week, John was waiting for him in the garage. the Impala was parked on the street. Dean sat in his car and exhaled, resigned. He left his backpack and running shoes in the passenger seat and ducked under the sliding garage door. It shut with a whirr as soon as he passed, and John stepped into the light glowing from the singly hanging lightbulb overhead.

A leather belt, folded in half, sat in his hands.

“I heard something today, Dean,” John began. He raked over Dean distastefully. “Wanna tell me what it was?”

Dean knew this game well. Nothing he said at this point would stop John from carrying out his plan. In John’s mind, Dean had already been tried and condemned. Dean had a US history paper due second period tomorrow; he may as well get this over with.

“You heard about the boy spreading rumors about me,” Dean said blandly.

“Rumors? You sure they’re rumors? Lotsa people thought the kid was lying, but me? I know my son. I seen those magazines behind your desk, boy. I know you’re fucked-up, I know there’s something wrong with you.”

Dean froze. Shit, he’d been so careful to hide the magazines. Waited until John was at work and moved his desk, made a paper envelope he could slot the magazines behind the desk. He’d even put Busty Asian Beauties at the front, to be found if somehow someone were to dip into the stash.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry for what? Let me hear you say it.”

“I’m sorry I’m fucked-up, sir.”

“You know what kind of boys like other boys, Dean? Faggots. You a fag, Dean?”

Dean grimaces. “No, sir. I’m not.”

“Good.” John loops the bent belt and snaps the leather pieces together. Despite himself, Dean flinches. John nods at Dean’s hands. “Palms out.”

Didn’t matter that Dean apologized, didn’t matter that Uncle Bobby had sworn to call the cops on John if he saw the red welts on Dean one more time. Dean unfurled his fingers and held his palms far from his body, since John’s aim was spotty. Lashes across the face were hard to explain away.

The snap of leather against skin hurt, but it made Dean’s shoulders relax. The first hit was always hardest. _Slap_ , onto the next palm, _slap_! That one was particularly painful, _slap_ , Dean screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. _Slap, slap, slap, slap_ until Dean’s hands were numb and twin rivers flowed down the sides of his face.

“Go wash up,” John said at last. “And stop crying. No son of mine is a wimp. Take it like a man and learn from it.”

And Dean did learn. Oh, did he learn.

So a dozen or so years later, when Castiel Novak tells Dean that they’re toxic, Dean knows what he’s really saying is that _Dean’s_ toxic. Dean’s been poisoned and chipped and corrupted so thoroughly that Cas can’t even touch him.

Dean ruins everything he cares about, and he’s fiercely proud of Cas for being smart enough to know the danger. For knowing he deserves better than Dean.

Someone like Dean is better off alone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the sporadic and spaced out updates, I'm still out of the country and the internet is spotty as hell. But your comments and kudos give me motivation to go to war with the Wi-Fi, so keep 'em coming and thanks for sticking with this!

Chapter 13

**Dean**

“You prick me with that motherfucking needle one more time, dude…” Dean trails off threateningly. From their spectator seats to his discomfort, Jess and Sam roll their eyes. The skinny Italian guy crouched by his calf, holding a needle and tape measure, blinks rapidly, as if unsure whether Dean’s joking or not.

                “Don’t scare Milos,” Jess chastises. “It’s your own fault it took you this long to get your tux fitted.”

                Dean directs his scowl at Sam, who’s watching the proceedings with way too much delight. Arms extended out on either side and legs apart, he’d been posing like a scarecrow for the last hour and a half. “You had to bring your fiancée to bully me, Sam?”

                “If I’d let him go alone, you would’ve talked him out of the fitting and we know it,” Jess interjects. Dean has to concede her point. At the end of the day, his brother could be swayed to Dean’s side with little to no effort on Dean’s part.

                While Milos shoves thick-framed glasses up his scrawny nose and mutters ‘scusa’ as he stabs the back of Dean’s knee, his calf, and his inner high, Jess drops her head to rest on Sam’s shoulder. Sam shifts subtly to accommodate the height, sinking lower on the chair and tilting forward. It can’t be a comfortable for him, posing like that, but he smiles softly when Jess snuggles closer.

                It’s nauseatingly sweet, an intimacy Dean’s only had once in his life, with a person he’s vowed to quit allowing his mind to drift to. He’d spent the weekend pathetically milling around his house on the off-chance that Cas would happen along. But no one came, and Dean’s done playing these games. It’s unfair to Cas and to himself. Even if Cas could have no-strings-attached sex, Dean can’t. _Him,_ Dean Winchester, can’t have a good romp in the hay without worrying he’ll develop feelings.

                Dean snorts, startling Milos again. What he needs is a good lay. Someone to wash away the taste of Cas on Dean’s tongue, the memory of his hip digging into Dean’s forearm while he struggled to thrust up into Dean. And a million other flashes of Cas’s skin, his touch, his goddamn moans, that have boiled to the surface all over again.

                “You think he’s gone into a coma from the blood loss?” Sam inquires, clapping loudly an inch away from Dean’s face. Milos doesn’t find the joke as funny as Jess does and storms off, Dean’s measurements and a quart of O-positive in tow.

                Dean ducks into one of the changing rooms and tugs on a white shirt and the navy pants of his police uniform. He debates adding the vest on too, but they’re going to dinner and he doesn’t want to deal with patrons acting squirmy near him.

                They head to Jess’s favorite Mediterranean restaurant, a Dean-approved eatery with shawarma rotating in a slow roast near the front of the restaurant and a meat-lover’s wet dream of a menu. The staff is friendly and prompt, leaving a little plate of hummus and a strange white cheese-looking cube. Sam is the first to try the cheese and flashes a thumbs-up at Dean. Jess reaches for it with a piece of bread, but Sam cuts her off. “No, babe. I taste garlic.”

                “Aw,” Jess pouts, returning to the hummus. Garlic screws up her stomach, and Dean sends Sam a mental high-five from preventing them from hearing her bellow about her stomachache for the next five hours.

                They talk about the wedding, gossip about the guests, and Dean’s subjected to a round of ‘let me set you up with my lovely cousin Rachel/Rebecca/Callie/Courtney’. He’s soldiering through it with customary grunts and scowls when Sam says, “Hey, how’s Cas?”

                The kabob Dean’s in the middle of swallowing takes a detour down the wrong pipe, and Dean’s coughing and thumping the table for two minutes straight. Sam races to slap his back and Jess tries to give him her glass of water.

                When he’s reasonably certain he’s not gonna kick it, kabob-style, he clears his throat and replies, “Not sure. We don’t really talk.”

                Jess and Sam exchange one of those secret mind-reading glances that Dean really friggin’ hates. “Then why’d you choke on your kabob?” Jess asks.

                “Why’d you bring him to guys’ night?” Sam adds. “If you don’t hang out, it seems kinda bizarre to bring him.”

                Dean does not approve of this change in conversation. He shifts in the booth and glares at them. “It was a spur of the moment thing. I ran into him, he didn’t have plans, I invited him along.” He aggressively refolds his napkin into a sloppy triangle, since eating while these poke their noses in his business won’t end well.

                “And you two haven’t talked since then?” Jess frowns. “That sucks. I was hoping to meet him.”

                Dean scowls. “Why? He’s not-there’s nothing-I barely know the guy.” The food turns sour in his stomach, and he tears a corner of the cloth napkin, the seams popping in a messy line.

                Skeptical, Sam forks a bite of his quinoa-vomit salad in his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “That’s a shame. I was so sure you two were an item in college.”

                Dean’s blood, which he’d been sure was drained out through Milos’s needles, turns to ice. The silence grows, and Sam stops eating to stare at him alongside Jess. He should stammer out a denial, reach over the table and punch Sam, anything but this stupefied silence.

                Sam’s eyes narrow, and while he dislikes when Sam and Jess exchange mind-reading glances, he absolutely loathes it when Sam reads him.

                “He was just kidding, Dean,” Jess soothes, digging her elbow viciously into Sam’s side. “He just meant you two seemed like good friends in college, and now that you’re both in L.A, it seems odd you’re not more interested in continuing the friendship.”

                _I know you’re fucked up, I know there’s something wrong with you_ , John’s ghost reminds Dean, gruff and disgusted.

                “He’s, uh…” Why can’t he speak past the cannon-ball sized lump in his throat? “He’s weird. Spazzy writer-type. We don’t have much in common anymore.”

                “Shame. He seems like a nice guy. Listened to Garth babble with more patience than anyone of us ever have.”

                Dean doesn’t need to hear what a nice guy Cas is. He already knows he’s nice, and funny, and kind, and Dean’s officially done with this conversation. “I’m gonna use the can.”

                Yeah, he’s definitely finding a warm body to lose himself in tonight.

 

                Two hours later, and Dean’s at the morgue with Jo, waiting outside while she finishes talking to the coroner. The autopsy on the last vic matched the defensive wounds of the other two, which meant they most likely had a serial on their hands. Although Jo and Benny are taking the lead on this, it’s bound to catch media attention sooner rather than later, and Dean wants to be on top of the ball when that happens. Which means they’re going to get some justice for these people and catch the sick bastard doing this. Tomorrow he’ll have to call a meeting with the officers assigned to the cases and hammer out strategy, because clearly the individual route ain’t cutting it.

                Jo doesn’t speak the entire drive back to the station. She’s pale and withdrawn. It’s not her first trip to the morgue, but this case isn’t hitting her gentle. Dean gets it. He’s seen gruesome shit working here the past few years, will see even worse in the ones to follow, but sometimes an odd one will sock you right where it hurts.

                When they arrive at the station, Jo spares him a goodbye before speeding towards her car and taking off. Dean’s technically off, and he’s tired as a dog. Before taking Jo to the morgue, he’d spent two hours redirecting traffic on the 101 after a truck carrying crates of organic eggs capsized and turned the highway into a yolky disaster. He’d had the option to call in for a patrol officer, but dinner with Sam and Jess was heavy on him and he wanted a physical, active distraction. Yelling at drivers beat paperwork.

                Now it’s nine and he’s exhausted and wants nothing more than to go home, shower, and collapse in bed. But the niggling worm in his brain whispering, ‘What if tonight’s the night Cas comes by?’ needs to be crushed, and the only thing Dean hasn’t tried is sex.

                He’s driving to one of the many dive bars downtown before he can talk himself out of it. In his standard leather jacket, jeans, and the white shirt from his uniform, Dean fits the mold of this crowd. Locating an empty stool by the bar, he slides his credit card to the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.”

                The bartender, a short girl with a pixie cut and crooked front teeth, is back with Dean’s drink by the time he’s done scoping out the scene. Dean wastes no time downing the drink. He relishes the burn prickling along his insides. He’s already mapped out women he wouldn’t be opposed to warming his bed; now all he needs is the motivation to walk over there and switch on the charm.

                The bartender slides him another drink just as his phone goes off. “Winchester,” he answers dutifully. He tosses the drink back and winces. He should’ve nursed that one. Looks like he might need to leave Baby here overnight. Freakin’ great.

                “You smelly asswipe,” the caller greets him brightly.

                “Hi, Charlie,” Dean sighs. “What’d I do now?”

                “You dodge my calls, skip out on game night three times in a row, and then you have the audacity to go to a bar without me? I’ll have you know, I’m the best wingwoman on the West Coast,” Charlie rants.

                “Wait-how the hell do you know where I am?” Man, if she hacked into his cellular location _one more time_ …

                “Turn around, dumbie.”

                Dean swivels in his seat, phone pressed to his ear, and spots a perky redhead waving at him from a booth on the other side of the pool tables. “Oh.”

                “Yeah, oh. You should be ashamed of yourself, sir.” From her location, Charlie wags her finger sternly.

                “Doesn’t look like you’re hurtin’ for company, sweetheart,” Dean drawls, nodding at the sexy, stoic woman sitting right beside Charlie, despite the fact that they’re in a booth.

                He spots Charlie’s uneven little frown under the dim lights and groans. He’s gone and hurt her feelings. “I’m sorry I’ve been a smelly asswipe, kiddo. This weekend, you and me-it’s a plan.”

                “What if I’m too busy having fabulous sex with this woman?” Charlie returns, uppity. The woman besides her jumps a little and blushes brightly. Charlie shoots her a wink while Dean stifles his laugh.

                “Well, then I’ll let you pick the date.”

                “Humph. That’s better. So who’ve you got scoped for the night’s carnal adventures?”

                “Pool table, twelve o’clock. Love me a girl who can knock a few balls. Chick three seats to my left, seems bored and alone.” Dean knocks back his third whiskey and stretches his legs. It’s kind of ridiculous that they’re talking on the phone when there’s a few dozen feet separating them. Not to mention rude. Charlie’s date doesn’t seem bothered by her partner’s inattention, scribbling in a palm-sized notebook with singular focus.

                “Hot and hot. Why do you sound like you’re deciding between two bowls of medicinal porridge?”

                “’m tired.”

                “Ooh, make that your opening line. They’ll be gunning for your slippery serpent in no time.”

                Dean cringes so hard he draws the attention of the bartender, who refills his empty glass with a snicker.

                “Please, for the ever-loving sake of anything holy in this world, don’t ever use that phrase again.”

                “No promises. I go where the alliteration takes me. If you go to pool table, send a drink first, sweeten her up. She’s probably been hit on all night,” Charlie advises. She’s assessing the other option when Dean’s phone beeps with another call.

                Holding the phone away from his ear, he reads Benny’s name. “Charlie, can you give me a sec? Got another call.”

                “Go for it.”

                Dean accepts Benny’s call, putting Charlie on hold. “What’s up?”

                “Sorry to be bothering you, brother. Know you had a long day, but I got someone in lock-up you might have an interest in.”

                Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. “Is it Garth again? What did he do?”

                “Nah, not Garth. Ah, here, wait a second…” Benny goes distant while Dean considers letting Garth spend a night in jail just to teach him not to keep squirreling away people’s pets, when a new voice, deep and unsure and wonderful, goes, “Dean? It’s, um, it’s Castiel. Novak.”

                “Cas?!” Dean jolts out of his seat immediately. “What the hell are you doing in lock-up?”

                “There was a bit of a misunderstanding with one of your neighbors. I attempted to explain myself, but I was arrested anyway. Your friend recognized me and called you. You don’t have to come. I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own affairs.”

                “Shut up, Cas,” Dean groans. “Sit tight. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

                He slaps a tip for the bartender on the table and starts making his way to the parking lot. He skids to a halt right under the neon entrance lights. Shit, _shit,_ he’s had too much to drink to risk driving. He can’t call Cas and tell him he’s failed him. Cas needs him, and Dean wants to be up to the task, dammit.

                An idea, one he’ll probably regret when he’s stone-cold sober, sends him winding towards Charlie’s back booth. He winces apologetically at her date before turning to Charlie.

                “Can I get a ride to county hold-up?”

               

**Castiel**

This is not how he expected the night to go.

                There are two other people in lock-up with him, a surly eighteen-year old with spray paint coating his arms, and a tall, bored woman smelling of cigarettes. Dean’s Southern friend is sitting on a metal fold-out chair, flipping through a file. The guard who’d sat at the desk had vanished upon Benny’s arrival.

                What must Benny think of this? Of him? It’s borderline stalking, what Castiel was doing earlier, and now Dean’s going to know. Castiel should have just stayed home. It’s all Dean’s fault, for leaving his stupid phone number and address. It stared at Castiel from his bedroom dresser, daring him, tempting him. Castiel doesn’t sleep well at the best of times, and with that damn paper a few inches from his head at night, his nocturnal habits went haywire. Not to mention no matter that he’d washed his sheets and diligently cleaned his room, he smelled Dean on him at night. This would result in the washing of more sheets when Castiel grudgingly shoved his sweatpants down and took himself in hand.

                He’d gone down to Dean’s house- a homey  yellow bungalow Castiel would’ve never imagined Dean owning- with the intention to cut this at the pass. He’d gotten halfway up the driveway, past the lavender tree and the branches catching in his shirt and pulling him back, before he chickened out. A pep talk by Dean’s roadside mailbox, and Castiel tried again, arriving at the doorstep this time before nerves took over and sent him fleeing back down.

                The cycle repeated itself until a police car pulled up and booked him for ‘reported suspicious activity’.

                A disturbance at the doorway pulls Castiel from his morose regret. It’s Dean, flashing his badge at the officer and storming inside. Castiel’s shoulders relax, and a poignant sense of safety washes over him. _Dean’s here._ Dean will sort this out.

                “Took you long enough,” Benny gripes. He hands Dean a clipboard and gestures towards Castiel. “Was worried he was havin’ some kind of seizure, he’s been rocking back-and-forth so much.”

                Dean’s busy scribbling on the clipboard, but he nods. “Does that when he’s nervous or concentrating.”

                Castiel blinks in rapid succession. It’s true, his rocking had annoyed multiple people over the years, but he’d never brought it up with Dean.

                “Hey, Benny!” A redhead in dark jeans, a _Star Wars_ T-shirt, and at least fifteen colorful bands around her thin wrists waves at Benny.

                Jealousy rips through Castiel like an inferno. Who the hell is she? Was Dean out with her tonight? Is that why he wasn’t home when Castiel came by?

                Of course Dean was on a date. Unlike Castiel, Dean hasn’t been obsessing over a scrap of paper like a middle schooler with his first crush.

                _She’s not even Dean’s type_ , Castiel notes cattily. Unless his tastes have changed since college, Dean favors busty girls with vacant looks in their eyes.

                Dean shoves the clipboard at Benny and grabs the keys on the desk, unlocking the holding cell with a metallic rattle. “C’mon, Cas. I’m springing you.”

                Gathering his jacket, Castiel carefully avoid meeting anyone’s gaze and hurries out, ducking around Dean. Dean and Benny exchange a few words, and Dean scowls momentarily. Then he’s rolling his eyes and slapping Benny’s shoulder.

                “Hi,” the redhead says, suddenly much too close to Castiel. He shuffles back a few steps, peering at her distrustfully. “Hello.”

                “I’m Charlie Bradbury.”

                _Good for you._ “Castiel Novak.” _Dean’s mine._

                “Castiel,” Charlie repeats, brows furrowing. She scrutinizes Cas. “Why is that name familiar?”

                Castiel cranes his neck to check how much longer Dean and Benny are going to chat. This girl is strange, and confirmed as _not_ Dean’s type.

                “Wait a minute,” Charlie gasps. Her eyes round in saucers, and awe strikes her features. “Aren’t you the author of the _Fallen Angels_ series?”

                Every muscle in Castiel’s body locks into place. His mouth opens and closes, brain signals malfunctioning from the blunt waves of shock slamming through him. There’s no way she can know he’s the author of _Fallen Angels._ He and Hannah had gone through great lengths to mask his identity. All the online forums, book clubs, blog reviewers, had speculated after the author of such a twisted and painful series, but none had come close to guessing who he was.

                She shouldn’t know. _How can she know_?

                “I know you’re the ‘Shadow Writer’, and that hacking into your agent’s files was a huge breach of privacy, but I loved the series so much and I was in a really vulnerable place at the time, and it made sense to find the one person in the world who seemed to know exactly what I was going through. I had no right, I’m so sorry. I just-I never expected to meet you. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

                Dean chooses that moment to join them, smiling until he catches sight of Castiel’s face. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? Was it the security guard, did he treat you badly? I’ll go get his information from Benny, gimme-” Dean starts towards Benny, but Castiel stops him with a hand on his arm.

                “No. I would like to leave, if that’s alright.”

                Dean hesitates, but the late hour and Castiel’s stiff-as-a-board posture must overcome his need to hunt down the security guard. He nods, and the three head out into the dark parking lot, an unfamiliar car illuminated by the flickering beam of a lone streetlamp.

                “Oh, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Cas,” Dean belatedly introduces.

                “Cas and I go way back.” Charlie unlocks the car-her car, where’s Dean’s?- and grins. “I think you’re being replaced as my best friend, Dean. Sorry.”

                Dean rolls his eyes and slides into the passenger seat. “I’ll live.”

                They bicker like siblings, and it doesn’t take long for the jealous tension to seep from Castiel’s shoulders. It helps that Charlie mentions ‘taking Glinda home and never coming up for air’.

                Neither of them ask why Castiel was taken in. Dean probably knows already. Sour embarrassment twists Castiel towards the window, studiously blocking out anything that isn’t the sight of the brightly lit buildings and the hum of the engine.

                They drive to _Moseley’s Bar_ and park besides the Impala. What’s Dean doing at a bar like this so late? Why wouldn’t he take the Impala?

Castiel puts two and two together and is crushed by the weight of his humiliation and hurt. Dean was here trying to get laid while Castiel was driven so mad by him that he’d been arrested in front of Dean’s doorstep. If Castiel hadn’t interrupted, Dean would’ve succeeded with his goal, too.

They get out of the car, Castiel radiating hostility. Charlie shoots him a cheeky but nervous smile. “I’m gonna go grab my lady and call it a night. It was nice meeting you, Cas. See you fellas later.” Charlie hurries under the neon sign into the bar, and Castiel feels a momentary flare of guilt. Her blatant invasion of his privacy aside-he’d have plenty of time to panic about that later- she seemed pleasant.

“I can drive you home,” Dean offers, gesturing towards the Impala. “Charlie wanted to but I didn’t want to keep her away from her date any longer.”

Calmly, Castiel adjusts the collar of his trench coat and shoves his hands deep into the pockets. He skates his gaze the two inches upwards to meet Dean’s and sneers. “Is this some kind of fucking game to you?”

Dean’s brows slam together, taken aback by the sudden shift. “What are you talking about?”

Heavens, they’re standing in front of a dive bar near midnight and while Castiel can’t smell the alcohol on Dean, he didn’t miss the bottles of water Charlie passed him throughout the car ride. Does Dean take him for a fool?

                “Why did you leave me your address and phone number? What exactly are you playing at?” Castiel restrains himself from shouting with difficulty. Instead of cowing Dean, Castiel’s aggression has the opposite effect.

                Castiel’s elbows are captured in an iron hold before Dean spins him, shoving his back against the cool metal of the Impala. The door handle digs into the small of Castiel’s spine, but the discomfort is easy to forget when Dean’s snarling two inches from his face. His grip moves to Castiel’s wrists, immobilizing him.

                “Does this feel like a goddamn game to you?” Dean growls, snapping his hips into Castiel’s, pinning him. Castiel stifles his moan when the evidence of Dean’s arousal, hard and straining, pushes against Castiel’s dick. “Answer me!”

                A group of hammered college-age kids stumble out of the bar, loud and rowdy. Dean’s manhandling him in public, where anyone can see them. His _friend_ could see them.

                Vindictive satisfaction courses through Castiel, reveling in the evidence that he can drive Dean so far out of his mind, out of his senses, that he’d risk being caught in this compromising position.  

                Castiel’s answer isn’t fast enough for Dean, who punishes him by dropping his teeth to the long column of Castiel’s throat and raking his teeth down the slope of skin. Castiel hisses at the sting, and then moans when Dean remaps the trail of bites with his tongue. “Come home with me,” Dean says, bumping his cock against Castiel’s insistently. “Let me show you the only kind of games I’m interested in playing.”

                _Yes, yes, yes_! “Not smart,” he grinds out. Why isn’t he wrestling Dean off? Putting up any kind of resistance?

                _Because this is what you were hoping for when you stalked his house,_ his inconvenient subconscious supplies. _You weren’t being smart then, either._

“Don’t care. I want you, and I know you want me. Smart can kiss my ass.” Dean drops one of Castiel’s wrists in favor of dragging his hand through Castiel’s hair, weaving expertly through the sweaty tangles.

                The familiarity of the gesture, the instant sense of security and liquid need melting his limbs, compels Castiel to make his second terrible decision of the night.

                “Take me home, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wolfish grin* Sexy timezzz coming up ahead! Along with a shit ton of angst, but them's the breaks. See ya soon!
> 
> PS: What's a WIP?? It's a type of fanfic I've gathered, but I can't find an answer for what it stands for.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Animals" by Maroon 5  
> 'Baby I'm preying on you tonight, hunt you down, eat you alive, just like animals."

Chapter 14

FIVE YEARS AGO

**Castiel**

“It’s nice. Homey,” Anna says, turning in a complete circle in his living room. “I like it.”

                “Thanks,” Castiel beams. Anna’s the first member of his family outside of Gabriel to visit Castiel in Kansas. And Gabriel had merely complained about the lack of a television before flopping on the couch to nap. “Have you applied to any schools yet?”

                “Yep, it’s a waiting game now,” Anna replies. “I, um, I actually applied here.”

                Castiel’s brows hit his hairline. He’d been under the impression that Anna’s parents weren’t keen on allowing her to leave the state for college. While they were reasonably flexible in allowing Anna to interact with her birth family, they had boundaries set up. Allowing her to come up to visit Castiel was a major concession on their part, and now this? “Is that so? The psychology program here is excellent. You’d do very well.”

                Anna nods, tentatively perching on the edge of the table. “Yes, it’s quite highly regarded. You’re planning on staying here after graduation, right? You’re not moving away?”

                “I have no plans to at the moment.”

                Something like relief trickles through her features, so like his. “That’s good.”

                The door swings open, startling them both. Anna jumps to her feet, and they both watch Dean barrel in, distracted and harried. His phone is balanced precariously between his ear and his shoulder while he struggles out of his jacket. He hasn’t seen either of them yet.

                “If you buy themed party hats, I swear to God I’ll ship you to Indonesia in a wooden crate,” Dean threatens gruffly, kicking the door shut and finally succeeding in wrangling off his jacket. “I’m not kidding, Samantha.”

                Castiel clears his throat, and Dean finally notices them. His eyes pinwheel from Castiel to Anna, and he bids Sam a brusque goodbye and tucks the phone into his back pocket. Castiel clocks the exact moment his wariness and confusion warps into the effortless, good ole American boy charm. “Why, Cas, you didn’t tell me you had such lovely company over.”

                Anna flushes pink, and Castiel tries very, very hard not to scowl. “Dean, this is my sister Anna. Anna, this is Dean.”

                They shake, Dean holding onto her hand for a beat longer than necessary. “Are you a friend of Castiel’s?” Anna inquires.

                “Cas tutors me in English,” Dean lies. Everything about him is smooth, a shallow and unbroken surface. “You’re headed to college in the fall, right?”

                Anna glances at Castiel with a pleased little smile that almost allows him to forget his irritation. “I am, yes. Castiel…talks about me?”

                Castiel softens, reassessing Anna. She looks at Dean eagerly, and Castiel thinks he’s failed as a sibling if she needs to turn to outside sources to get confirmation that she’s loved. His mother had died giving birth to Anna, and when his Dad had taken off when Anna was a toddler, the family had erupted. With the help of a family friend, they managed to wrangle Michael-who was twenty-one at the time- primary custody of Castiel and Gabriel, but Anna had been too young. Gabriel was just shy of seventeen and Castiel was ten at the time. They didn’t need the care a two-year old did, and so the courts had arranged for an adoptive family to take Anna. Castiel would never forget the look on Michael’s face, hard as granite, the face of someone who’s handing over his heart because he can’t be trusted to keep it safe, when Anna’s new parents came to collect her.

                It’s a hard line to walk, being in Anna’s life without intruding on it. Clearly he hasn’t maintained the balance well, and he’s grateful that he gets this weekend with her.

                Truly unfortunate, it turned out to be, that it was precisely that weekend with Anna that would set off the ticking time bomb that was his life.

 

THE PRESENT

**Castiel**

                The drive to Dean’s home feels like an eternity. Especially when Dean asks, “So  called the cops on you for lurking around my place, huh?”

                “It was a misunderstanding,” Castiel returns, huffy. The most effective route to killing his overbearing urge to crawl into Dean’s lap while he drives would be opening the door to questions. “I was there to formally reject your invitation and your street watchmen became suspicious.”

                “Yeah, Kevin's pretty gung-ho about neighborhood security. Can’t say I’m sorry, though, not when it means we didn’t have to waste time with me talking your head out of your ass.”

                “I believe you’ve got the positions mixed up,” Castiel replies with a heavy sigh. “Because my head wasn’t firmly up my ass until I got into your car.”

                They fall quiet, both lost in their own thoughts. Excitement hums under Castiel’s skin, anticipation to touch the man beside him, to lose himself in his heat and his addictive sounds. All the reasons he’d meticulously listed out about why he and Dean shouldn’t do this are effectively null and void because he’s come to the conclusion that he just doesn’t _care._ The pain, the rage, the reopening of old wounds-Castiel will drown with a sweet smile if it means he can have Dean again, just for a minute.

                “Sammy asked about you,” Dean says out of the blue. “His fiancée wanted to meet you.”

                Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he remains quiet. He allows himself to watch Dean though, as his throat work and a lovely pink creeps up his cheeks.

                “He said he suspected we were an item back in college. Said it while he was eating this quinoa salad crap, casual-as-you-please,” Dean chuckles, but it sounds fake. Strained. “Observant son of a bitch.”

                Castiel’s eyes widen owlishly. He hadn’t known what to make of it when Sam mentioned at the guys’ night that Dean used to sing his praises often. It had breathed life into a withered part of him, knowing that Dean’s affections for Castiel had been too strong to keep from his brother, even if he’d had to rearrange the truth.

                But apparently he didn’t rearrange it quite platonically enough, if Sam picked up on it.

                “And how did you react?” Castiel asks carefully. They’re turning into Dean’s neighborhood, trash bins lining the streets for pick-up the next day and no nosy neighbors out and about.

                “I…didn’t. Jess changed the subject and I went to the bathroom and ignored them the rest of dinner.”

                So he didn’t deny it?

                Castiel doesn’t know what to make of that, but he does know he needs to shut down that small bud of hope blooming in his chest immediately. So he shrugs and says, “Don’t worry, Dean. I sincerely doubt they suspect enough to truly threaten your gold-star heterosexuality.” There. It’s mean and uncalled for, but Castiel’s pride is still smarting from the arrest and seeing Dean in front of that bar.

                But then Dean decides to throw him for a loop and snorts, “What fuckin’ heterosexuality? I’m about to go in there and suck your dick, dude. Doesn’t get much gayer than that.” Then he’s getting out of the car and Castiel hadn’t even realized they were parked and Dean’s opening his door and smirking. He’s knocked Castiel off balance and Castiel can’t do more than gape.

                “Think you’re funny, do you?” Castiel grumbles, scooting out of the car and following Dean to the front door. He fits his key into the lock and twists before winking at Castiel. “I think I’m adorable.”

                Castiel’s barely has a chance to shrug off his coat and take in Dean’s home before he’s being hauled against a hard body and a hungry mouth. Dean sucks Castiel’s lower lip and nips the sensitive flesh before licking into his mouth. Castiel’s not bashful, dropping his hands to Dean’s jean-clad ass and squeezing. “I want this,” Castiel growls against Dean’s wet kisses, giving his hard ass another squeeze to make sure his meaning is crystal clear. “I’m going to pound you through the mattress tonight, Dean.”

                The animal groan that rips from Dean is approving. “God, yes.” They stumble, Dean guiding their clinging, fused bodies, hopefully towards the bedroom. Although at this point Castiel would be fine fucking Dean against the wood floor. Half of him wants to take this slow, remap the geography of Dean’s body with his hands, his tongue. The other half is the one already ripping open the buttons of Dean’s shirt.

                When they arrive at the bedroom, Dean hits the light switch, flooding the room with light and making Castiel blink rapidly. “Oh, sorry. Do you want it off?”

                And miss watching Dean’s expression when he comes, miss his muscles rippling when his body opens underneath Castiel’s? Miss watching his cock disappear into the right heat of Dean’s ass?

                “No.”

                Dean takes in Castiel’s grim determination and arches a brow. “Dude, you look like you’re about to deck me.” He smirks with pink lips ripened by Castiel, and the smugness of it strips bare the last of Castiel’s resistance to this entire enterprise. Not that there’d been much to begin with. The control Castiel prides himself on, the meticulous consideration and planning-none of it matters when it comes to this infuriating man.

                Castiel shoves Dean onto the bed, the latter hitting the mattress with a surprised ‘oomph’. Dean’s shirt is open, baring his mouthwatering chest to Castiel’s hungry gaze. Straddling Dean’s hips, he leaves open-mouthed kisses along the slope of Dean’s shoulder, onto the jut of his collarbone. He can’t resist sinking his teeth into his muscled pectoral and is rewarded when Dean’s response is a sharp hiss of pleasure.

                A swipe of his hot tongue along Dean’s nipple finally gets the reaction Castiel didn’t know he was waiting for. With a growl that has Castiel’s cock throbbing in its confines, Dean tangles his hands in Castiel’s hair, tugging the strands to the point of pain.

                Castiel laves the tight nipple until it glistens red with moisture before turning to the other one. Beneath him Dean is moaning, the sound vibrating through the chest Castiel’s tongue is currently attempting to map.

                Sitting back on his haunches, Castiel revels in Dean’s desperate whine when Castiel’s hair is no longer in reach. But patience has never been Dean’s strong suit, and he allows Castiel a single moment of admiration before he’s surging forward, sliding Castiel’s thighs down until their dicks meet.

                They both groan. Castiel takes advantage of his position to thrust shallowly against the front of Dean’s pants-which brings to the forefront that they’re _still wearing clothes_ \- while Dean’s fingers bite into his waist, reeling Castiel’s body in faster, harder.

                “Take this shirt off. Now,” Dean demands. Castiel shucks it off quickly and nearly comes on the spot when Dean’s eyes darken and his lips part. “Shit, Cas. You’re so fucking hot.”

                “Thank you, yourself as w-oh, _oh Dean,_ ” Castiel’s breath stutters when Dean leans forward and suckles one of Castiel’s nipples greedily. He switches between both of Castiel’s suddenly throbbing nubs before licking a long line up Castiel’s sternum, to his collarbone.

                As if triggered by some silent alarm, they both grab for each other’s zippers on cue. The soft rasp zippers sliding down and their heavy pants are the only sounds in the room. Breaking from Dean for the moment it takes Castiel to lie back on the mattress and shuffle off his pants is agony, and he turns to Dean, hard bodies colliding impatiently. Dean’s cock brushes hard and wet against Castiel’s stomach, and he stops sucking the skin of Dean’s neck long enough to glance down and smirk.

                Dean’s hard as a rock, the swollen tip of his cock beading white drops of pre-come. Castiel’s mouth waters, imagining the weight of the heavy flesh on his tongue.

                Then he realizes-why imagine? This isn’t one of Castiel’s many guilty, dirty fantasies. Dean is here beside him, and Castiel can do things like crawl down Dean’s body and swallow his cock.

                So he does just that.

                “Cas! Yes, oh _fuck,_ don’t stop, don’t stop,” Dean’s orders, strained and guttural, and his hands find their ways back into the nest of Castiel’s hair. Castiel wants to tease Dean, lick around his cock and bite the inside of his thigh and tempt him until he’s a writhing mass on the mattress, but his own desire is too furious to be slowed down. He cups Dean’s balls, rolling and squeezes the sacs in his palm, fueled by the purely pornographic noises coming from Dean. Then he travels lower, his fingers finding the tight hole made specifically for Castiel’s cock.

                Castiel squeezes Dean’s dick, moistening his fingers in the mixture of saliva and pre-come lubricating his length. He’ll need to ask Dean for the lube eventually, but he’s loathe to disrupt the display of Dean, splayed open for him, engorged cock jutting proudly in the air.

                A single finger breaches the tight ring of muscle. Dean gasps and stills, eyes glazing like his entire focus has seeped to the point of connection between him and Castiel. It’s unexpectedly nerve-wracking. The thought of Dean with anyone sends gut-wrenching rage pulsing through him, but the thought of Dean with another _man_? Another man who might have put his fingers where only Castiels’ belong? Who might have seen Dean vulnerable and open like this?

                Violence has never appealed to Castiel, but this train of thought has him tasting blood in his mouth.

                Castiel works another finger into Dean and wraps his lips around the other man’s cock. “C-Cas,” Dean’s plea is nothing short of a broken sob. His hips buck upwards, pushing his dick further down Castiel’s throat. With the hand that’s not currently inside Dean, Castiel holds down Dean’s thigh in a steely grip. “Fuck, feels so good, so good, Cas.”

                Castiel laps at the underside of Dean’s dick, whimsically tracing the angry vein pulsing along the side. Then he goes lower, swiping his tongue over Dean’s stretching rim and his own fingers.

                The sound of anguished encouragement Dean releases has Castiel redoubling his efforts to moisten and slick Dean’s hole. Even though it’s still a little drier than Castiel would prefer, he sucks another finger wet and pushes it into Dean, forming a semi-circle inside him and fucking the digits into him slowly.

                When Dean’s suddenly tenses, Castiel grabs the base of his cock tightly, squeezing until Dean’s back under control. He tsks at Dean. “You’re not coming until my cock is buried inside this tight ass.” Assured Dean’s not going to give into his body’s demands, Castiel releases Dean’s cock and continues pushing, stretching, working his fingers in Dean. He absently mouths at Dean’s cock, his attention now focused on keeping _himself_ from coming.

                “Please, man, _please_.”

                Dean’s cock pops out of Castiel’s mouth with a wet pop. “Please what?”

                Raising his head high enough to aim a lethal glare down at Castiel, Dean snarls, “Fuck me, you smug bastard.”

                Rearing up on his knees, Castiel spreads Dean’s legs, his neglected cock thumping against his belly. He smiles serenely down at Dean. “All you had to do was ask.”

                The blunt head of his dick is knocking at home base when he remembers. “Condoms. Where are your condoms?”

                “Drawer,” Dean answers with great effort, waving his arm in the general direction of his bedside table. Castiel crawls over Dean, fumbling with the first drawer, which is filled empty save some loose-leaf papers and beer can tabs. He hits pay dirt with the second drawer, grabbing a condom and a bottle of lube before returning speedily to Dean.

                He’s tearing open the foil and preparing to slide it on when Dean swats his hand away and takes it. “Let me,” he says, and strong fingers sheathe Castiel’s cock in the condom before dropping a chaste kiss on the tip of his covered cockhead, like a blessing. 

                Castiel nearly blows his load right then and there.

                By some heavenly miracle, gritting his teeth and running a mental montage of the mold he’d found growing in the back of his closet keeps him from losing control. Dean’s smirking at him. “How’s that just dessert tastin’, Cas?”

                Castiel drops a dollop of lube on his condom, reveling in Dean’s rapt attention as he spreads it liberally over his cock. Castiel grins, feral and sex-drunk. “Tastes like ass.”

                Dean barks a laugh that transforms into a low moan when Castiel breeches his hole. It’s a tight fit, but when Castiel’s cock begins tunneling into the glove of Dean’s ass, hot as a furnace and so damn _perfect_ , he has to remind himself to slow down. He watches Dean’s expression carefully for any signs of bordering pain until he bottoms out.

                “Are you okay? Is the pain tolerable?” Castiel checks. He bows over Dean, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of Dean’s chest. Dean’s hands travel up the corded muscles of Castiel’s arms, along his stubbly jaw.

                His voice is fervent when he replies, “The only thing that’s not tolerable is the fact that you’re not movin’. Fuck me, Cas. _Now._ ”

                That’s the second time he’s asked, and Castiel has no intention of making him ask a third. Drawing his hips back, he slams back into Dean and swallows the other man’s cry in a sweltering kiss. He fucks him in earnest, their mouths hovering centimeters from each other, breath brushing in short gasps as Castiel fulfills his promise to pound Dean’s ass through the mattress.

                When he draws one leg up beneath Dean’s thigh and angles his hips, he thrusts into a spot that has Dean’s back bowing off the bed with a cry. Castiel drinks in the sight, absorbs this beautiful man he’s literally _inside of_ , the flushed freckles, the glazed green eyes flecked with precious gold, the glistening muscles shifting under his tan skin. His cock, thick and hard, bounces with each stroke of Castiel’s cock into Dean’s hole.

                Lord, but Dean Winchester’s beauty will never cease to unravel him.

                Like the unattainable expanse of the sea, Castiel can only have a drop, a single grain of Dean, without ever hoping to capture the man himself. He can only watch as the waves crash around him and pray that this time he won’t drown.

                He slams into Dean, muttering dirty praises in his ear until Dean’s short gasps turn into, “Gonna come, fuck _fuckfuck,_ I’m gonna, _ungh,_ Cas, p-please.”

                Castiel can’t fathom what Dean’s begging for until Dean tips his face up, lips parted and eyes expectant.

                Dean’s asking for permission.

                “You can come, Dean,” Castiel says urgently. “Come for me, baby.”

                He sinks his dick into Dean and grazes his teeth along Dean’s shoulder in the same instant. Dean roars, and wetness splashes across their chest, painting them with Dean’s release. Castiel rides him through it, pulling out every last drop from Dean until Dean’s hole suddenly _clenches_ , tightening around Castiel like it’s trying to keep him locked inside forever.

                And then it’s him who’s shouting, pulsing into the condom and falling forward on Dean’s sticky chest. Dean’s hands are in his hair, stroking along his back, comforting and soothing.

                Castiel’s brain is mush, and he barely has the energy to shift enough to free his cock into the unforgiving chilly air. Dean shudders, and Castiel has a moment of regret that he wasn’t gentler. Didn’t take more time to really loosen Dean up. Perhaps sensing this, Dean traces a finger around the shell of his ear and murmurs, “That was awesome.”

                “Mm,” Castiel agrees incoherently. Maybe it’s the sleepless nights or the punishing drop of adrenaline, but Castiel feels like Morpheus himself has settled on his eyelids.

 Dean’s laugh is soft and amused. The cooling semen on his chest and Castiel’s weight can’t be comfortable for him, but he stays put, carding his hands through Castiel’s hair. “Sleep, Cas.”

                _Bad idea,_ he thinks somewhere in the mush. _Shouldn’t spend the night, shouldn’t…_

But lying between Dean’s legs, head pillowed on his chest and familiar fingers in his hair, Castiel can’t help but obey Dean’s directive.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a newb at writing smut (and also fanfiction-losing all kinds of virginity here) so I hope that was somewhat up to par. Thanks for the comments on the last chapter, I freaking love reading them, they make me want to kiss y'all through my computer screen. 
> 
> Do you guys remember when I only wanted this fic to be 36k? Let's all take a moment to laugh together.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: 'Love' by Lana Del Ray
> 
> "You're part of the past but now you're the future. Signals crossed and can get confusing. It's enough just to make you feel crazy, crazy, crazy, sometimes..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call yo mama. Why?   
> cause I got the drAMAAAA

Chapter 15

FIVE YEARS AGO

**Dean**

                “I’ll leave early,” Dean promises, doing nothing to hide the desperation weighing his voice. From his sprawl on the couch, Cas snorts and takes another swig of the bottle clutched between nimble fingers.

                “Don’t do me any favors.”

                “Cas. C’mon, don’t be like this,” Dean pleads. He crouches by his head and runs the pad of his thumb along Cas’s cheek. Cas remains unmoved, but at least he’s not pushing Dean away. It breaks Dean’s heart, and if it were anyone else, he’d be embarrassed by how pitiful his voice comes out sounding when he murmurs, “It’s my birthday. Please?”

                Cas sits up on the couch, the sudden movement almost knocking Dean back on his ass. Luckily, he’s got quick reflexes, and he rocks back and up on his heels. Cas follows the action with a dark, languid look that used to make molten lava flood Dean’s veins, but now he knows it just means things are bad. There’s no love, no affection, nothing but carnal desire and male appreciation when Cas looks at Dean like that.

                Fuck. This is worse than he thought.

                “Hey, at least my sister’s invited,” Cas blurts with a mocking chuckle. “One Novak made the cut.”

                “You’re invited, too,” Dean reminds him, frustrated.

                “Yeah, so long as I maintain a distance from the birthday boy at all times. Right? You don’t mind if I’m there, just another shadow, just another admirer, close but not close enough?” Cas finishes off the bottle with a long swallow, a drop of the exported beer he’s been buying more and more of running down the smooth pillar of his throat and disappearing into his collar.

                Despairing and more than a little mad, Dean watches Cas toss the bottle in the garbage with a clink and root through the fridge for his third of the evening. The last thing he wants to do is leave with Cas like this. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to leave in the first place. Sam and Ellen conspired to throw him a big birthday bash, along with the entire university football team, and likely every girl Dean’s ever so much as sneezed near. It’s his twenty-first birthday, the day booze and man become one, and Dean’s too busy worried his boyfriend is going to drink himself dead before midnight.

                _Boyfriend_. Dean frowns, trying the word out for size. He’d never labelled his relationship with Cas, hadn’t wanted to deal with the implications, but now that he has…it’s kinda nice. His boyfriend. _His._

                “We don’t need to announce it for a roomful of people for you to believe I’m yours.” _I love you,_ Dean adds.

                Cas braces his hands on the sink, head hanging and shoulders bowed. It’s the stance of a defeated man, and Dean doesn’t think before he wraps his arms around Cas’s waist and presses his lips to his temple. “Please come down,” he whispers against Cas’s overly warm skin.

                A shuddering breath shakes through Cas. “I’m sick of pretending, Dean. I’m sick of feeling ashamed for how I feel about you. I’ve been patient because I know you care about me. I thought you just had things you needed to work through first. But it’s been three years, three wonderful, painful, years, and you’ve only sunk deeper and dragged me down with you.” Cas turns in the circle of Dean’s arms and presses his lips to the corner of Dean’s downturned mouth.

                “Go to your party. We’ll talk when you return.” A death sentence if Dean's ever heard one. 

                “Cas…”

                “Go. I’ll be here.”

                Although it kills him to do it, Dean drags himself to the door, sparing one last glance at Cas. Brilliant blue eyes Dean could write crappy second-rate poetry about meet his and soften. Cas tips a smile towards him and makes a shooing gesture. It’s close enough to normal that Dean exhales and nods, letting the door swing shut behind him.

               

THE PRESENT

**Dean**

                Whatever the hell’s waking him up from the best sleep he’s had in…way too long, is about to be decimated.

                There’s a warm body at his back and a heavy arm slung over his waist. Rhythmic breathing tickles the back of his neck. Sometime after Dean wiped himself off-because no way in hell was he risking a shower to find out Cas left sometime while the water was running- and threw on sweatpants, Cas shifted in his sleep to spoon Dean.

                Moving at a snail’s pace, Dean turns slowly towards the bedside table, where a dim glow is lit against the darkness of the room. Groping for the phone, Dean freezes when Cas grunts and presses closer, plastering himself to Dean’s back. Dean fights a grin and completes his aborted movement towards the phone, now in total darkness. He closes his hand around it and squints at the screen.

                It takes about three seconds to puzzle out that the reason his lock screen’s changed from a picture of him and Sammy on the Impala to a grey monochrome is because he’s got Cas’s phone instead.

                Six messages clutter Cas’s lock screen notifications panel, all from the same person. The urge to snoop overcomes his conscience with barbaric triumph, and he swipes his thumb down the screen.

                BALTHAZAR: Rapunzel my love, let down ur hair! Ur beloved is in town and ready to climb ur tower

                BALTHAZAR: Since when do u sleep before 3 am? Answer me, I’m parking in front of ur eyesore, sorry, building

                BALTHAZAR: MY KNUCkLES R RED AND UR BLOODY NEIGHBOR IS THREATENING TO CALL THE POLICE! WHERE R U???

                BALTHAZAR: honestly, u get a social life when I’m in town and particularly randy??

                BALTHAZAR: I called Gabriel and if you’ve not returned by morning we shall commence full-blown panic

                BALTHAZAR: and if you do return by morning, I may have to punish you for the dreadful frown lines you’ve caused me

                In a remarkable show of willpower, Dean refrains from crushing the phone in his fist. It’s close, though.

                Who the _actual fuck_ is Balthazar?

                Every muscle in Dean’s body is wound tight, preparing for an imaginary fight. What the hell kind of name is Balthazar, anyway? He can’t be Cas’s boyfriend-just the idea has Dean wanting to hit something-but there’s no way he’s a friend. Dean’s received similar enough texts to know this is a booty call.

                He’s taking shallow breaths to quell his fury and keep from shaking Cas awake to interrogate him on this Baltha-whatever-the-fuck when a phone rings.

                It’s Dean’s phone.

                Scrambling to answer it before the noise wakes Cas, Dean barely glances at the caller ID before hissing, “You’d better have a damn good reason for calling this late.”

                “There’s been another murder,” Jo says. “Reads like our guy, and uh, you need to get to the scene.”

                Dean’s already tossing the blanket off his legs. “Address?”

                She rattles off the directions to one of the seediest parts of LA-and given how sketchy this county is as a whole, that’s sayin’ something- that’s about a thirty minute drive from his house. There’s something off about Jo’s voice when she tells him to hurry, but Dean chalks it up to exhaustion and the circumstances.

                He’s tucking his badge into the back pocket of his jeans when Cas stirs. “Dean?” he asks blearily. The only illumination in the room comes from his window, a distant streetlamp providing enough light for him to see Cas sit up against the headboard and scrub his hands down his face. His hair is rumpled as all get-out, dark strands framing his pale and confused face.

                More than anything, Dean wants to crawl back into bed, wrap Cas up in his arms and turn a blind eye to the shit that’s waiting outside in the real world.

                “Didn’t mean to wake you. Got a call from work, gotta head to the crime scene.”

                Cas is suddenly alert. His hands form tight fists in the blanket. “Is it another murder?”

                Dean’s wince is answer enough, and Cas blanches. “Jesus.”

                “Yeah. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

                They stare at each other silently, words lodged stubbornly in Dean’s throat.

                “Do you think you might wanna…you know, stay? Until I get back? I wanna talk,” Dean stammers, and mentally groans in frustration. Why couldn’t he have inherited the gene that somehow allows Sammy to go on and on about his feelings like a teenage girl on prom night? Instead, Dean gets stuck with the Patent-Pending Winchester emotional constipation.

                But it must pass muster with Cas, because he hesitates before nodding. “Okay.”

                Relief weakens his knees. “Great, that’s great.” He checks that his shoes are on and pulls back his jacket to make sure his gun is holstered properly. When he turns to bid Cas goodbye, he finds his gaze fixed on where the gun hides behind the jacket, unmistakably terror in his eyes.

                “Hey,” Dean says, frowning. “Cas. You alright?”

                “Please be careful,” Cas breathes in a rush, as if the words had been lodged behind a similar dam in his chest. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

                “Who, me? Stupid? Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

                “I’m serious.”

                Because he’s a sick bastard, Dean winks. “I promise I’ll come back in one piece. Or at least, the pieces you like best.”

                His tactic works. The pinched furrow in Cas’s brow relaxes, and he rolls his eyes. “Be safe, asshole.” He slumps back down under the covers and burrows into Dean’s pillows which, hey, he’s never going to wash ever again.

                Despite the fact that he’s headed towards a crime scene, there’s a spring in Dean’s step when he leaves the house.

                Like most happiness in Dean’s life, it’s rapidly extinguished.

                Forensics walks around Dean, snapping pictures and taking measurements and placing tape around the debris. They casually sidestep the body, as if it’s just another piece of evidence, as if there isn’t a murdered young man lying in a cooling pool of his blood at their feet.

                The man’s blue eyes are chillingly blank and lifeless. His neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, and blood mats his shoulder-length black hair to his skull. He can’t be more than twenty, twenty-one.

                It’s terrible, of course. Tragic. But it’s nothing new. Nothing that should have had him stuffing his knuckles in his mouth and biting down to keep the bile burning his esophagus from making an appearance.

                Because next to the man are two words, written in sloppy copper-colored letters on the cement, that make Dean want to hurl everything in his stomach.

                ‘ _FAMILIAR, DEAN?’_

                “What the fuck?” he whispers, almost inaudible. But Jo’s hovering beside him, and a small hand finds his shoulder and squeezes.

                “Dean…I think our killer knows who you are.”

               

**Castiel**

He fails to fall asleep after Dean leaves.

                He tries, of course. Tosses and turns for ages, blankets knotted around his bare legs and pillow flipped for the coldest side at least a dozen times. But it’s abundantly clear when dawn’s pink rays filter through the window that sleep is a lost cause.

                It’s strange, navigating Dean’s home without the owner himself here to dictate what’s what. Castiel showers and washes his hair with an oaky shampoo that smells like Dean and digs around until he finds a pair of Dean’s sweatpants that won’t slide off his much narrower hips.

                The sun is officially up by the time he pads down the hall and into Dean’s kitchen. His house is bigger than Castiel’s apartment and a thousand times more homey. A navy couch sits in front of a flat screen TV that rivals Gabriel’s in size. A coffee table sits between them, cluttered with auto magazines. Off to the side is a rocking chair that has the look of an antique, with curved woods armrests and tiny carvings in the plush leather seat. It's quite a variation of Dean's style, and he wonders what the story behind it is. He continues his perusal, clocking a colorful afghan tossed over the back of the couch, and an abandoned mug on the carpet, presumably where Dean would place it if he were too lazy to stretch to the table.

                The kitchen, too, couldn’t be further from Castiel’s own. The fridge and freezer are stocked with food and drinks, and there’s an honest-to- God kettle sitting on the stove. He rifles through the pantry and finds a baker’s daydream, flour and baking soda and vanilla extract being among the few he recognizes.

                There’s an impressive spice rack by the sink, and Castiel spins it idly. Dean had cooked most of their meals when they’d lived together, and he’d done an excellent job of striking a balance between healthy food for tip-top football shape, and grease that would set their intestines aflame. And sometimes, on the rare occasions that football or Castiel hadn’t run him ragged, he’d blast Metallica and bake them a pie, taking breaks to work on his homework or flick flour at an exasperatedly amused Castiel.  

                Kneading absently at the ache in his chest, he wanders to the fridge and stares intensely at the contents. Grab a yogurt and watch television until Dean returns, or cook a big breakfast to distract himself and surprise Dean?

                Strike that. He most definitely isn’t going to cook a big breakfast for Dean. He’s still going to cook a big breakfast, but it’s not going to be _for_ Dean. Feeding Dean is just a byproduct. He settles on bacon and eggs, because how likely is he to mess that up? It would be rather difficult, even for him.

                He messes up.

                When the door opens an hour later, Castiel’s poking Dean’s fire alarm with a broom, there’s a skillet smoking in the sink, and the distinct smell of burned bacon is everywhere.

                Castiel winces sheepishly. “I attempted breakfast. As you can see, I wasn’t exactly successful.”

                But Dean’s not paying attention to the smoke or wrinkling his nose at the smell. He’s staring at Castiel as if seeing him for the first time. Castiel slowly lowers the broom, setting it against the counter.

                “What’s wrong?” he asks, because something is _very_ wrong, this he knows. Dean’s freckles stand out in sharp relief against skin that’s gone so white it’s almost translucent. Castiel takes slow steps towards Dean, as if approaching a wild animal. Dean tracks him without blinking, and the closer Castiel gets, the more his concern grows.

                But it’s not until Castiel touches Dean's shoulder and the latter gasps, claps his hand over his mouth, and sprints towards the bathroom, that Castiel really begins to panic.

                He’s quick on Dean’s heels. Dean sinks to his knees by the toilet and vomits. Castiel runs to the fill a glass with water and is back in an instant, rubbing soothing circles in Dean’s flexing back.

                When Dean’s retched twice with no result, he lays his head on the porcelain seat and exhales. He shakes his head slightly at the offered water, so Castiel sets the glass aside for now. They’re both on the floor of the bathroom, Castiel with his back propped against the wall and his legs crossed on the mat.

                “What happened, Dean?” Castiel whispers, afraid of the answer.

                Dean stares at him silently for so long that Castiel wonders if he’s going to be ignored. But a slow blink of eyes that have seen far too much, beautiful green eyes that shouldn’t look as lovely as they do when they’re filled with tears, precedes Dean’s nearly inaudible reply. “I told you, there was a murder.”

                Castiel’s lips purse in off-the-cuff bystander sympathy. But this is Los Angeles, and Dean’s an officer of the law. If this is having such an impact on him…wait. “Same killer from the cases you showed me?”

                “Yeah.”

                Castiel is still missing something, he knows it. “Was it a particularly grotesque death?”

                It’s not the right question to ask, because Dean’s bloodshot eyes fill again, and a single tear escapes the corner of his eye, sliding horizontally across his tilted head and disappearing into his hair.

                So much for Castiel’s efforts to give Dean some space. Before he can think about it too much, he closes the space between them, crawling to wrap his arms around Dean’s middle and pull him into him. Dean goes willingly, crumpling into Castiel as if he’s boneless. He buries his face into Castiel’s neck, and he feels hot tears against his skin. It reminds him of when Dean appeared in front of his apartment door, unable to bear the weight of John’s death alone anymore. He’d known Castiel would catch him then, and despite the years and the scars between them, he clearly trusts Castiel to catch him again.

                Gathering Dean closer, Castiel strokes the back of his neck and tells him _it’ll be okay, I’ve got you, breathe with me_ , until Dean’s no longer shuddering against him and the tears have long since dried up.

                “Dean,” Castiel coaxes, gently pushing Dean back enough to get a good look at his face. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please. It’s killing me to see you like this.”

                “Don’t say that,” Dean bursts, his fingers digging into Castiel’s thighs. “Nothing’s killing you. You’re fine. You’re here and you’re okay and _nothing is going to happen to you_.”

                There’s clearly no getting through to him in this state. Whatever it is that’s got Dean so worked up can't be eased with force. He stands, hauling Dean up with him. “I’m not going anywhere. Let’s go back to the kitchen. There might be something salvageable from breakfast.”

                Relief ripples across Dean’s face, and he nods, taking Castiel’s hand and allowing himself to be led. Castiel pushes him onto a chair at the small table adjacent to kitchen. “Stay here.”

                Slumping into the chair with a flicker of a smirk, Dean salutes. “Sir, yes sir.”

                “Smartass,” Castiel sighs, hiding his smile. Baby steps.

                There’s nothing to be eaten from his botched breakfast, so he goes with the easy route and pops two bagels into Dean’s toaster. He puts the kettle to boil and can’t resist ribbing Dean. “I never figured you for a kettle kind of guy.”

                Dean’s chin is propped on his fist while he watches Castiel flit inexpertly around his kitchen. “I’m full of surprises.”

                _That you are,_ Castiel thinks, and goes to lather their freshly toasted bagels with-“Light Whip cream cheese? Who are you and what have you done with Dean Winchester?”

                “Hey, it’s a lot harder to stay in shape when there isn’t a football coach riding your ass all the time.”

                “Thought I was the one riding your ass.” Castiel blinks innocently, and chuckles when Dean’s response is a raised middle finger.

                The kettle whistles. He pours two mugs of herbal tea-Dean’s certainly healthier than he was back in the dorm days- and slides Dean’s bagel and tea towards him. Castiel sits beside him and separates the two halves of the bagel.

                “Oh man, you still eat it like that? Dude,” Dean complains. He takes a chomp out of his own bagel to emphasize his point.

                Castiel eats a bite of his bagel halve and shrugs. “To each their own.”

                Neither of them speaks again until they’ve finished their bagels. Castiel’s hands are wrapped around his mug, warming his palms and steadying his nerves. It hasn’t bypassed his notice that this whole morning has been a catastrophe as far as his plans to avoid getting roped back in with Dean go. He’s lassoed good and tight, and the worst part? He’s not even interested in trying to get loose.

                There’s a smear of cream cheese on Dean’s upper lip that’s been there for at least five minutes, but it’s amusing, so Castiel keeps it to himself. Dean takes giant swallows of his tea, as opposed to Castiel’s measured sips, and in no time, he’s pushing away an empty mug.

                “I’m sorry,” Dean says without preamble. “This morning…freaking out like that. Not my best moment.”

                “I figure it puts us on equal footing. You’ve seen me lose the contents of my stomach, and now I can say the same.”

                “When did I-oh. Right, the bachelor party.” Dean falls quiet again, thoughtful instead of melancholy this time. Castiel takes the opportunity to lean forward and swipe off the dollop of cream cheese from Dean’s mouth with his thumb. He sticks it into his mouth and lick his thumb clean, enjoying Dean’s surprise. When he pops his thumb out and Dean looks like he’s interested in popping something else in Castiel’s mouth, he steers the conversation back on track.

                “So, why _did_ you freak out this morning?”

                Dean lifts his gaze from Castiel’s mouth and heaves a breath. Maybe he should leave Dean be until he voluntarily offers the information. It’s not like Castiel’s entitled to it. He’s not Dean’s boyfriend or partner, not even his friend, and therefore he shouldn’t have a listening ear available.

                He’s about to wave aside his question and save Dean from having to answer, but Dean beats him to it. “There was a message for me at the crime scene,” he says, drumming his fingers against the table in an agitated rhythm. He doesn’t look at Castiel. “From the killer.”

                And just like that, it’s Castiel’s turn to feel like he’s about to throw up. He inhales through his nose, reminding himself that Dean’s fine. But the crime scene photos in the file Dean gave him have lurked at the back of his brain, and now they’re solidly at the forefront. Except instead of a teenage girl or a stuffy suit, it’s Dean lying in a pool of his own blood, vivid green eyes glassy and unseeing.

                Castiel pushes his mug to the side, the liquid sloshing over the sides, and drags in another lungful of air.

                Dean’s still resolutely studying the table and tapping his fingers in a _one, two, three, three, two, one_ pattern, over and over. “The vic was a young Caucasian male, late teens to early twenties, lanky build, with black hair and blue eyes. The message…” Dean takes a deep breath, but his voice still cracks when he continues. “’Familiar, Dean?’”

                “I don’t understand. Did you know him?”

                The question pulls a frown from Dean, and he finally stops his incessant tapping. “No, but I know someone who looks a helluva lot like that guy.”

                Castiel reviews the features Dean had listed and finally connects the dots. “Oh.”

                “Yeah, _oh.”_

“But how…”

                “No goddamn clue.”

                So not only is there a potential serial killer out there who knows who Castiel is, but apparently he went to the lengths of finding a replica of him just to deliver this blow to Dean. Someone _died_ yesterday, for the mere unfortunate coincidence of sharing a similar appearance to Castiel.

                “It’s not your fault.”

                “How can you say that?” Dean says with an incredulous laugh. He runs his hand through his hair, stopping at the nape to curl, tug, release. “That poor bastard got ganked because of me. Because of what you mean to me.”

                Castiel barely has time to process those words- _what you mean to me,_ present tense- before Dean’s plowing on. “And you know what the kicker is? I saw that message, I put two and two together, and I was so _relieved._ Relieved that it wasn’t you on the cement. Jesus, Cas, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I got you into this mess. I should’ve never found your address, should’ve left you alone after the night at the club.” Dean drops his head into his hands, shoulders stooped and an air of cloying despair blanketing him.

                It’s too much. Castiel’s only human. Abandoning the last shred of hope that he’ll leave this house with his reason and self-preservation intact, Castiel stands and straddles Dean’s lap, forcing him to lower his arms and meet Castiel’s steady gaze. Castiel twines his fingers around Dean’s neck and touches their foreheads.

                “I’m glad you found me,” he whispers, finally allowing himself to acknowledge the fact. “It’s less than ideal having a serial killer after us, but then again, everybody has problems.”

                “Less than ideal?” Dean repeats, flabbergasted. “I’m not chattin’ about the weather, Cas.”

                “I’m aware.”

                “This is a bloodthirsty killer. Who knows about you and has some kind of personal vendetta against me.”

                “Yes, so you’ve said.”

                Dean pulls back to gape at Castiel before shaking his head. A laugh rumbles through his chest, crinkles fanning around the corners of his eyes that make Castiel want to wrap this man in a blanket and lock him away somewhere. He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “You’re somethin’ else, Castiel Novak.”

                Eventually, they fall back into bed, too tired to do more than lazily make out. Castiel gathers him close, one leg between both of Dean’s, his arm pillowing Dean’s head, and his other arm over his waist. Castiel waits until Dean’s breathing evens out, his light brown lashes fluttering every so often with some restless dream. His lips part, and the tension in his body melts away.

                Only when Dean is sound asleep does Castiel settle, and his last conscious thought is that, serial killer aside, he’s in a world of trouble.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHATDJA THINK? Did this chapter float your goat? Did it tickle your rooster? 
> 
> I probably won't post until next week since I'm flying back home and enduring what may be the world's worst overnight layover in Italy. Don't be shy to leave comments per favore and grazie!
> 
> -Jessa


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: "I Want You Here" by Plumb  
> "An ache so deep, that I can hardly breathe. This pain can't be imagined. Will it ever heal?...All I could do was keep believing. Was that enough?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five points for Gryffindor if you can spot the dialogue segment from season 4

Chapter 15

FIVE YEARS AGO

**Dean**

This party officially sucks ass.

                He’s counting down the minutes until he can make his escape, away from the people pretending they’re here to celebrate Dean but in reality are more interested in Ellen’s discounted beer for the occasion. Dean drinks free, of course, so that’s something. Sammy’s the only reason Dean bothered to make an appearance in the first place. Sam’s been planning this for weeks, thinking he was pulling the wool over Dean’s eyes. Least Dean can do is plaster a smile on his face and slam back the free birthday booze.

                He does what’s required, schmoozing with his teammates, snickering at the appropriate raunchy jokes, idly checking out the women they point out. And the clock ticks along, mercilessly slow, oblivious to the gnawing impatience of the guest of honor. The more Dean drinks, the more bitter birthday shots burn down his throat, the fuzzier his mind gets. It’s harder and harder to remember why he wanted to go home so urgently. He’s young, he’s having some damn fun, and there’s so much to drink it’s almost sinful.

                Sam’s smile falters the second he takes a gander at Dean, sitting perched on the bar stool with one leg kicking at the linoleum, resting his cheek against the cool bar, a lukewarm beer can at his forehead. “Dude, you’re smashed.”

                “Astute observation, Sammy boy,” Dean slurs. Is he drooling? His lips are parted and there’s too much saliva in his mouth. Nah, Sam wouldn’t let him get away with drooling without some good mockery.

                “Dean…what’s wrong? You’ve been off all night.”

                “Whendja leaf for Stanford?” Dean demands, sitting up and nearly keeling to the ground. Luckily, Sam’s reflexes are quick. He steadies Dean, frown deepening. Little brother’s always been remarkably good at reading Dean, guessing his moods even if the reasons for them were lost on him.

                “Not until late August.”

                _You’re leaving me_ , Dean realizes. _Why does everyone leave?_

He studies his baby brother, committing everything to memory. His shaggy brown hair, overgrown and in need of a good weed-whacking. Those puppy-dog eyes, that oh-dear-Dean’s-being-Dean-again frown.

                He pats Sammy’s cheek with a heavy hand, earning him a patented Bitchface and smack on the wrist. “You’re gonna kill it out there. Stay away from the granolas, California’s full of ‘em.”

                “The granolas?” Sam repeats, but they’re accosted by Dean’s least favorite teammate, Gordon Can’t-Touch-This Williams.

                “Dean-o!” he crows. “You going home along tonight or what?”

Even in his pitiful state, Dean’s defenses lock into place, automatic and autonomous from Dean himself. He leers. “You offering?”

                Gordon laughs on cue and slaps Dean’s back. “You see that sweet piece over there? Redhead by the pool table?”

                Following Gordon’s finger, Dean swivels in his seat and spots Anna, nursing what _better be_ a soda and hanging close to the wall. She looks uncomfortable and out of place, and Dean feels an immediate slash of guilt that he didn’t try harder to make sure Castiel’s little sister was having a good time.

                _Cas_. His brain perks up, only to sink once more under the three liters or so of booze serving as his cerebrospinal fluid.

Either oblivious or immune to the death ray glare Sam’s aiming his way, Gordon pushes Dean onto unsteady feet and angles him towards Anna. “Get her to warm your bed and we’ll be bowin’ at your feet, Winchester. Hasn’t paid attention to any of the guys’ here, and we’ve got a pool on whether you’re going to strike out or not.”

Dean’s brow furrows. He doesn’t compute. Is Gordon asking him to go hit on Cas’s little sister by the pool table where he told Cas he loved him for the first time? Doesn’t Gordon know how sick that is?

“He’s in no condition to take anyone home. Anyway, she’s seventeen. Jailbait.”

How does Sam know that? Dean’s having a real tough time remembering who knows what about what.

“Dean’s a big boy,” Gordon disagrees. Something malicious flashes across his features, rendering him unspeakably hideous for a fraction of a second. Then it’s gone, and human Gordon says, “Unless…there’s some reason he won’t hit on her?” A weighty pause. “Or is it can’t?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Sam spits, angry where Dean’s nauseous. He meets Gordon’s gaze unflinchingly and manipulates the lax muscles of his face into a sneer.

“I win, you’re doing field cleanup for a month.”

Gordon goes to shake Dean’s hand, but Dean smacks it aside and stomps in a somewhat straight path towards Anna. Sam’s disapproval chases after him, but the man himself stays put. Dean almost wishes Sam would stop him so he'd have an excuse not to go through with this shit. 

He uses the wall by Anna’s head to steady himself when he reaches her, the exertion of walking a few dozen feet too much for his logged limbs. To stoke the flames of his guilt, Anna looks _relieved_ that Dean’s here. She smiles up at him, and there’s so much Cas in that tentative half-smile that it causes him to slide a few inches down the wall.

“Whoa,” Anna gasps, reaching out to steady him with a hand on his elbow. “Are you alright?”

                Over her head, at least ten intrigued faces follow their interaction, prominent among them Gordon’s. Dean straightens, shaking her off less gently than he probably should’ve. He tries to poke around for his bag of tricks for something that’ll ease this along, but it’s moot. This is Cas’s damn sister and what he’s doing is seven levels of fucked-up.

                “Anna, can I kiss you?” Dean asks, done with the charade. He just wants to crawl into bed and wrap his arms around Cas and kiss his neck and fall asleep with his nose in his hair even though it tickles and makes it hard not to sneeze.

                “What?” Anna gapes. She shuffles a step back, arms going to cross over her chest. “Why?”

                “There’s a group of guys over there with a bet about whether or not you’ll let me make a move on you.” He’s really not making a compelling case for himself, but what’s he supposed to say? It’s pretty clear without words that he’s a gigantic asshole. An asshole who’d rather hit on his best friend’s, his _boyfriend’s_ , little sister, rather than risk blowing his preposterous cover. A cover that won’t matter in a month, when they walk across the stage to receive their diplomas.

                “I don’t understand. Aren’t you…with Castiel?”

                There’s a flicker of panic in his chest, followed by mild irritation, and then numbness makes it’s claim once again. “Yes,” he says, and the one-word confirmation is the best damn thing that’s come out of his mouth all night. “I’m not actually hittin’ on you, honey. I just want these guys off my back because they don’t know I’m with your brother, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

                Anna’s face slackens in comprehension. Dean can’t meet her eyes. “Oh.”

                “So is that a yes?” They need to move this along before Dean does something stupid like beat on Gordon or drive to the cemetery to kick John’s headstone and yell obscenities.

                “I-I guess,” Anna says haltingly. Dean doesn’t give her time to change her mind, and despite every instinct, every raw nerve in his body screaming at him to _stop, no, idiot_ he lowers his mouth to Anna’s.

                It’s rigidly chaste, a soft brush of Dean’s lips against Anna’s once, twice, and then he’s pulling back. Anna blinks and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Dean doesn’t take offense, since he’s itching to do the same. Instead, he glances up, prepared to deliver a fuck-you-very-much victory middle finger at their audience.

                Instead, he finds stricken blue eyes, shot with disbelief and betrayal.

 

THE PRESENT

**Dean**

                It’s only been two hours since he dropped Cas off at his apartment and he’s already rabid to go back. He’s assigned a patrol car to make rounds around Cas’s place now that he’s a potential target for their killer. It’s not enough. Dean wants to be there, have Cas firmly in his sights, but he’s got a boss breathing down his neck for progress on the case and a station full of spooked officers. After all, if the killer targets one cop’s loved ones, what’s keeping him from going after the rest?

                And the question of _how_ hangs heavy over them all.

                Thank God for Jo. She leads the meeting by his side, smoothing Dean’s edges, motivating the detectives instead of barking at them. Normally she’d dress Dean down to his skivvies for letting his mood cross over like that, but she’s been tiptoeing around him since he arrived.

                They send the security footage of every camera within a mile radius to the tech guys to go over with a fine tooth comb. Dean assigns Jo to review witness statements and go back to the bar and interview anyone who could’ve interacted with the victim. Unless the killer was wandering around hoping a Cas look-alike would fall from the sky, he must’ve scoped the victim out at the bar before he took him out back.

                At around lunch, Dean texts the number he programmed into his phone earlier, ignoring the fourteen or so messages from Sam and Jess about wedding crap.

                DEAN: _Hey u good?_

He’s staring intently at his phone, so he jumps when it vibrates with a reply almost instantly.

                CAS: _I’m fine. How about you? How’s work?_

Dean blinks, thrown. The fledgling hope spending the night wrapped around Cas had nurtured perks up. He gnaws on his lip, considering how to answer, before he realizes he’d put a teenage girl to shame and thumbs out his reply.

                DEAN: _ok i guess, everyone’s nerves r on edge_

CAS: _That’s to be expected. Have they found anything new about the killer?_

DEAN: _nope. we got our thumbs up our asses on this one_

DEAN: _but you’re safe, tho_

DEAN: _I’ve got patrols going around ur place_

CAS: _You don’t have to do that, but I appreciate the sentiment. Are you planning to come by after work?_

“You stare at that phone any harder and I’ll have to put you away for public indecency,” Benny grunts, dropping into the chair across from him. It’s a testament to reflex that Dean only flinches in surprise. He raises a brow at Benny.

                “Got nothing better to do than stalk me?”

                Benny huffs. “All I seen of you is the back of your neck these days. You avoiding me?”

                Yes, yes he is. Has been since Sam’s party. But he’s pretty sure Benny already knows that. Willing to bet dollars to donuts he knows why, too. So Dean only shrugs, leg jumping up and down under the desk.

                Benny rubs the flat of his hand over his badge and sighs. Guilt weighs on Dean. He’s been an ass since the bachelor party, getting cagier and more closed-off. It’s unpleasantly reminiscent of the months after graduation, where the only company that could tolerate him had been the television, couch, and remote.

                His phone’s gone dark, but Cas’s text is tattooed in his mind’s eye.

                _Are you planning to come by after work?_

How fucked-up is it that Dean’s grateful that this murder gives him an excuse to see Cas? He knows having sex was a mistake. No way can he still be this raw around the guy and expect sex not to make it worse. He’s gone from aching for Cas to _starving_ for him, and that’s just not fair. Not to Cas, not again.

                “Benny…” Dean starts. He studies the man who’s become one of his best friends, who can see past Dean when he’s prickly and angsty and know what’s behind the front. Dean’s lungs fill with air. The barricade that’s existed on the tip of his tongue for some many goddamn years is flimsy. Brick-by-brick, the words that have surged there and been swallowed back have eroded at it, and all Dean needs is the final push for it to collapse into dust and debris.

                The Southern man watches him patiently.

                _Are you planning to come by after work?_

“I…I’ve…” Dean begins. He clears his throat. God, he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. He just knows he needs to say something, right here, right now, before he loses his nerve. Before the voice that whispers in his ear returns and stamps out the scant courage he’s managed to muster. “How did you know? At the party? About…me and Cas?”

                It’s hardly a confession, but there’s no mistaking the meaning. Heat creeps up Dean’s neck, and he’s certain he’s an appealing shade of puce right around now.

                Benny’s jaw drops for a fraction of a second. Whatever he thought Dean was going to say, this clearly wasn’t it. He recovers quickly, though. “Because I know you, brother. Only people you look at like you’d lay your life at their feet are your family, and…him. Put two and two together.”

                The explanation is simple, and it knocks Dean so far back on his ass that he blurts, “It wasn’t my gay vibes?”

                Deafening silence. Benny’s nostrils flare.

                They both burst into laughter, and Dean covers his face with his hands. His words are muffled through the grate of his fingers. “We’ll pretend the last thirty seconds never happened. I know where you keep your service gun.”

                “Affirmative,” Benny chuckles. He waits until Dean lowers his hands, and his expression is uncharacteristically somber. Benny’s not what one would call a jokester, but there’s always an air of dry humor in his interactions. There’s only sincerity and affection now, and it makes Dean squirm uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m glad you told me, Dean. You seem to really care about that Castiel. Woulda been a right shame if you screwed it up by being…well, you.”

                “Hey, fuck you,” Dean says without any real heat. He sighs and grabs a pen, clicking the top in time to the thoughts furiously swirling around his mind. He’s just confessed to liking dudes-or at least, one dude-and flung his sexuality open for inspection, but there isn’t any of the choking panic or sense of suffocation that came whenever someone in college came close to guessing the world’s worst kept secret.

                 At some point, Benny gets bored watching Dean stew and wanders back to his desk. His visit ends up being a blessing for Dean’s subordinates, because when he tracks them down to get progress updates, it’s with a lot less venom and much more yes-I-just-peeked-out-of-the-closet cheerfulness.

                It’s when he’s sifting through Jo’s witness statements and waiting for his coffee to cool that he realizes he never replied to Cas’s text.

                Fumbling for his phone, he’s almost tempted to tell Cas about his conversation with Benny, but he holds back. He’s not sure what this thing with Cas is. Well, he knows what it is to _him._ Hell, any third party observer with functioning vision can tell what Cas means to Dean. But he doesn’t want to risk scaring Cas away with any declarations. He’s got a lot to make up for with Cas before he can even think to ask for his trust again.

                DEAN: _sorry, I thought I replied and got distracted. Course ‘m comin, c u at 6_

He waits, but Cas doesn’t immediately reply, and Dean’s got to finish this batch of statements if he wants to leave in time for dinner with Cas.

 

                **Castiel**

                Flexing his wrist from left to right, Castiel hopes he’s not going to have to extract the wrist braces from their place in his junk drawer.

                It’s getting dark out, and for the first time, the sight of the setting sun doesn’t send a pang of despondency through him or remind him of another unproductive day gone to waste. There was pages and pages worth of material for the next _Fallen Angels_ installment on his screen. When Dean dropped him off, Castiel hadn’t even bothered to change into more comfortable clothes before  bringing his laptop to life and putting fingers to keys.

                It doesn’t exactly line up with the plot progression line he charted last month, but it’s better, more inspiring, than any of the drivel Castiel’s managed to churn forth recently. Hannah’s going to be overjoyed, in that flat, robotic way of hers.

                The only breaks he’d taken were to eat, pee, and reply to Dean. When he’d taken the leap and asked Dean if he was coming over only to be met with radio silence, well, he’d tried hard to funnel his agitation into his computer and not drum his forehead against his desk.

                Maybe it’s a good thing Dean’s not replying. Castiel finally saw Balthazar’s multitude of messages and assured him he was in fact alive, and not receptive to his company this weekend. It certainly threw Balthazar for a loop, and Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to stop by anyway. They’d met at a writer’s retreat in Washington and begun a casual sexual acquaintance, where Balthazar would swing by whenever he was in LA for a physical tune-up.

                Those visits were usually pleasant, and Castiel would look forward to them, but now the idea of spending the night with Balthazar when the memory of Dean’s touch is still etched into him is abhorrent.

                Apparently Dean isn’t suffering the same issue, since he still hasn’t bothered to respond. Not that Castiel is checking, of course.

                When a heavy knock startles him in the middle of writing his favorite angel’s death, fear tingles down Castiel’s spine. He sets the laptop aside and tiptoes toward the kitchen, wincing when the rickety floorboards groan underneath him. He grabs the frying pan out of the dish rack and presses his ear to the door. “Who is it?”

                “It’s me, you schmuck. Open up!”

                Castiel lowers the frying pan and exhales. A serial killer would've been more merciful. He opens the door to glare down at Gabriel only to be met with twin stares of suspicion.

                “Balthazar,” Castiel sighs. He steps aside, allowing the two men entrance since his only other option is to knock them both out with the frying pan, and he doesn’t think his landlord would approve.

                He closes the door regretfully. It was an unfortunate day that these two met and decided to become the best of friends. Weren’t older brothers supposed to naturally dislike their siblings booty calls?

                “Were in the hell were you last night?” Gabriel demands instantly, crossing his arms over his chest. Anger is so uncharacteristic of Gabriel that Castiel can’t help his raised brows at the display.

                “Out,” he says curtly, mirroring his brother’s pose and daring him to probe further.

                Balthazar lifts placating hands between the two. “Now, now, no need for the testosterone, gentleman. Cassie, you had us worried sick. It’s not like you to vanish without a word.”

                He’s right, of course. Castiel knows Gabriel’s anger comes from aggravated relief at his safety. Dropping his arms, Castiel rubs his temples, massaging his brain into figuring a way out of this mess. In his back pocket, his phone releases a chirp signaling an incoming text.

                “I’m sorry you were worried,” he says carefully. “But I’m a grown man, Gabriel. I can come and go as I please without having to check in with you.”

                “He makes a great point-” Balthazar starts, but Gabriel crowds Castiel’s space, suspicion crystallizing into betrayed accusation.

                “You were out with _him,_ weren’t you?” he sneers. “That spineless closet case you can’t seem to get enough of.”

                “He’s _not-_ ” Castiel stops and reins in his temper before continuing. “He’s not a spineless closet case, and I’m growing sick of your cruelty towards him.”

                Behind Gabriel, Balthazar’s doing nothing to mask his curiosity. “Who are we talking about?”

                Gabriel doesn’t look away from Castiel when he snaps, “Oh, didn’t he tell you about his great epic love with one Dean Winchester? Fucked in secret through college because he’s a chickenshit straight boy, broke Castiel’s heart so badly that he had to get his diploma mailed to him because he couldn’t get out of bed and go to graduation.”

                “And this is the man you were out with last night?” Balthazar inquires, with less judgement in his voice than Castiel would have expected after Gabriel’s incriminating little spiel.

                Castiel’s too busy glaring daggers at Gabriel. Clearly he was mistaken in thinking his brother was just worried about his wellbeing. “My life and the way I choose to live it is _not_ your concern, Gabriel, and I want you to leave.”

                A hard shove sends Castiel reeling back towards the coffee table. Gabriel is visibly shaking, red with rage. “It is my concern, you flaming asshole!” he shouts, stabbing a finger into a frozen Castiel’s chest. “It’s my concern when my baby brother shows up bruised and sobbing at my door, when he barely eats or speaks for _months,_ that’s my goddamn concern!”

Balthazar edges closer, preparing to intervene if necessary, but Castiel holds him off with a wave. Gabriel’s on a roll, and it’s best to let him get to the end.

                “I don’t know what it is about this guy that puts blinders on your common sense, Castiel, but I won’t let him drag you through the mud again. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better, and I’m tired of screaming myself hoarse trying to convince you of the fact.”

                They fall quiet, Gabriel’s chest heaving and Castiel studiously studying the carpet. It’s Balthazar who finally breaks the silence, tossing an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and squeezing. “He’s got a point, you know.”

                “Yes, he does.”

                Gabriel glances up, lips still trimmed to a narrow line. Castiel holds his gaze. “You’re right. I’m well-aware of the risk I’m taking, but I’ve learned from my mistakes. I know better, now. I know what I deserve. You’ve taught me that, and I need you to trust that I can handle myself.”

                Gabriel jaw clenches, and Castiel’s preparing himself for another shouted lecture. But Gabriel only pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “Why him? Help me understand.”

                Castiel shakes off Balthazar’s arm and gestures for them to sit on the couch, quickly closing the laptop while they settle. He perches on the coffee table across from Gabriel and briefly regards Balthazar with an eye roll. “You know, it’s ridiculous that you’re here.”

                “Ouch,” Balthazar gasps, slapping a hand over his heart. “After all the orgasms we’ve shared, Cassie? I’m wounded.”

                Castiel’s eyes map the back of his skull on their second roll.

                “You’re more than a deliciously skilled bedmate,” Balthazar says, ignoring Gabriel’s disgusted grimace. “You’re my friend, and I care about you whether or not I get to see you naked.”

                “How touching,” Castiel drawls. He rubs his palms against his knees and tries to figure out how to explain a concept as abstract and inexplicable as his feelings. He’s never been particularly good at that, a quality he had in common with Dean. It had come back to spite them later, and if Castiel’s interested in keeping the past from repeating itself, he’s going to have to start making changes.

                “He can’t make a good joke to save his life,” is the first thing that comes out of Castiel’s mouth. “He’s quite frankly catastrophic at any kind of wordplay, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. If I’m not mistaken, he’s still lobbying to get ‘werepire’ added to Merriam Webster dictionary. He’s remarkably talented, but you wouldn’t know it with the way he speaks about himself. His father was an abusive alcoholic and left Dean to raise his younger brother, a Stanford graduate currently studying law at UCLA and planning his wedding. It’s a miracle that all the damage their father did hasn’t utterly wrecked them, but they’re resilient. Although I’ve long suspected that Dean carried the brunt of his father’s abuse after their mother’s death. Sometimes I want to wring his neck because he’s so damn _stubborn_. When he loves, it’s with his whole heart and soul. He puts himself second in every situation and beats himself up for his mistakes. One time, after a particularly grueling round of midterms, he skipped work to prepare a feast of all my favorite foods and decorated the apartment with inspiring quotes he found cheesy but knew I loved.”

Frowning at his folded hands, Castiel shakes his head and speaks his truth. “I can’t-I can’t explain _why_ , Gabriel, or how. I’m not even saying I’m willing to give him another chance, or if he wants that. But for all his faults-and God help me, but there are many-I see something in him. I see his guilt, his anger, his confusion…and I can’t help but want to bring him peace.”

Castiel hazards a glimpse of Gabriel and Balthazar. Balthazar’s staring at Castiel like he’s sprouted a second head, and Gabriel is eerily still. Castiel hopes it’s because he’s mulling over what he said and not because Gabriel’s condemnation for Dean has already been brokered and rendered absolute.

“And here I thought it was just good sex,” Balthazar marvels.

“That too.”

Gabriel holds up a hand, and he’s smiling. “Unless both of you want a lapful of barf, let’s reroute from my brother’s sex life, shall we?”

“Cassie is in love!” Balthazar sings, then yelps when Castiel’s foot slams into his shin. “Ouch! You bloody wanker, stop assaulting me!”

                “I’m not in love!”

                The men on his couch look at each other and then Castiel, soundly unimpressed. Gabriel shakes his head with a huff. “The only reason I’m hearing you out is because any fool can see you’re gone for the pretty boy. But Castiel, I have conditions.”

                It’s a lifetime of patience that keeps Castiel from telling Gabriel where to stick his conditions. “Yes?”

                “You are not to be dragged back into the closet,” Gabriel begins, listing them off on his fingers. He ticks his index finger next. “I get to meet him in a public place.”

                “Gabriel, stop, stop,” Castiel cuts in, pushing down Gabriel’s counting fingers. Alarm rings in his ears that he may have succeeded too well in convincing Gabriel that Dean wasn’t Satan Incarnate. “Dean and I-what I mean to say is, there’s no evidence thus far that we’re going to pursue a romantic relationship.”

                Gabriel releases a derisive snort. “Dude, who are you trying to kid? Let me finish.” He goes on to list various methods he’d dispose of Dean’s mangled corpse should he violate any of Gabriel’s rules while Balthazar throws in the occasional suggestion and Castiel groans into his hands.

                It’s seems perfectly within the bounds of the evening’s context that there’s a knock on the door while Balthazar’s in the bathroom and Gabriel’s researching locations that sell tarp and chainsaws.

                Gingerly picking up the frying pan from where he’d set by his shoes, Castiel angles it in front of his chest to hide it from Gabriel. There’s no eloquent speech he can craft that’ll calm Gabriel down if gets a whiff of the serial killer situation he’s currently embroiled in.

                “Who is it?” Castiel calls, clutching the rubber handle tight.

                “It’s me. Dean.”

                Materializing behind him as if magically summoned, Gabriel gestures towards Balthazar, who can be seen petting his hair in the bathroom mirror down the hall.

                Casting the frying pan back onto his shoes, Castiel’s absurd eagerness to open the door is hardly tamped by the menacing presence at his back.

                Dean’s holding two white paper bags with oil stains at the bottom and grinning. To Castiel’s disappointment, the second Dean gets a glimpse of his nosy visitors, his grin dims, and his eyes narrow. “Bad time?”

                “Not at all. Gabriel and Balthazar were just leaving,” Castiel says meaningfully, but he may as well be screaming into the wind for all the good it does.

                “Balthazar?” Dean grinds out. He bypasses Gabriel to settle a blistering glare on a puzzled Balthazar. Castiel, too, is confounded by Dean’s reaction, but he’s not willing to hash it out on his threshold, so he ushers Dean in with a hand on his elbow and shuts the door. A decision he immediately rethinks when he notes the three high-wired individuals he’s effectively penned in. Well, two individuals. Balthazar’s not one for explosions.

                “I’m the one you should be paying attention to, Dean-o. Just because my brother can’t quit singing your praises doesn’t mean I’m ready to believe you’re not a steaming pile of shit.”

                “Gabriel!” Castiel growls.

                “No, it’s alright.” Dean hands the bags of food to Castiel. The tops are crumpled from Dean’s hard grip. “Let’s hear your two cents, Gabe.”

                Gnawing at his lip, Castiel transports the bags to the coffee table and tries to hover between Gabriel and Dean. Not that he thinks they’d become physical, but better safe than sorry. He’s strong, but the two would probably do significant damage to each other before Castiel could pull them apart.

                “You are not good enough for Castiel.”

                “Agreed,” Dean grunts promptly. “Next?”

                Gabriel blinks, withering slightly. Castiel drags a palm down the side of his face and wills himself not to intervene in this disaster.

                “If you hurt him again, I will end you. Painfully.”

                Dean quirks his lips in a mockery of a smile. “I’ll help you do it.”

                “Would you quit that?” Gabriel scowls. “Intimidation doesn’t work if you’re willing to throw yourself under the bus.”

                “Then quit trying,” Balthazar crows, slinging an arm around Castiel’s waist. Dean tracks the movement. “It’s perfectly clear that this man is as bonkers for Cassie as Cassie is for him. Coincidentally, when were you going to tell me you were sleeping with an officer of the law? You know that’s on my bucket list.”

                Castiel glowers at the ceiling, wondering where in his life he went so wrong that the universe decided to punish him with this moment.

                “I mean, those guns. And I’m not talking about the one in the holster. Or am I?” Balthazar tosses his head back and laughs uproariously at his own joke. He slaps Castiel’s rear, ripping a snarl from Dean, and saunters towards the door. “I believe you’ve properly cowed Dean here, Gabriel. Shall we get going so these two can engage in pornographic quality time?”

                “Dean, could I borrow your gun?” Castiel asks. “Just for a moment.”

                “One last thing,” Gabriel insists, and unfolds to his full height, which still barely brings his head to Dean’s chin. “Dean Winchester, are you bisexual?”

                “Gabriel!” Castiel shouts. His patience snaps, and he shoves Gabriel towards the door, knocking him into Balthazar. He's not going to stand there while they shred Dean apart. “Out!” 

                Gabriel glares, poised to defend himself, when a softly uttered word brings the Novak brothers to heel.

                “Yep.”

                Castiel’s heart comes to a shuddering halt. He turns slowly, because if this is some kind of hallucination, he’d like to prolong it as much as possible. Despite Gabriel posing the question, it’s Castiel Dean’s looking at, and it’s only Castiel who sees the naked vulnerability and gritty determination reflected in his green eyes.

                “You think you’re bisexual?” Gabriel checks. From his periphery, he sees Balthazar twist open the door and hook a finger into Gabriel’s collar, but his brother digs his heels and waits.

                Castiel waits, too.

                Dean shakes his head, but before Castiel can take a swing at him, Dean clarifies, “I _know_ I’m bisexual. No other explanation for how much I enjoy it when your brother takes off his clothes.”

                “Oh, Jesus, I’m leaving,” Gabriel mutters. “I’ve got enough mental images to pay for Pamela’s new swimming pool in therapy bills. Bye, baby bro. We’ll pick this up later.”

                Balthazar finger waves at Dean and winks. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Dean. Text me later, Cassie!”

                The door shuts behind them with a resounding click, leaving Castiel, Dean, and Dean’s confession alone at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've fiNaLLy got an estimated end chapter for this fic. I think four more should neatly wrap this up. The next chapter is the official end of the flashbacks, and I wish I could say it was the end of the angst, but...well.  
> I promised myself I'd stay away from writing fics after this one because it always ends up being on my mind 24/7, but I've already got an idea for another one (not in any way related to this one btw) sooo....probably gonna break that promise.  
> I LOVED THE COMMENTS ON THE LAST CHAPTER! That's why this chapter was so damn long. 
> 
> P.S. I loved Italy and the way Italians say my name.  
> P.P.S The world and the weather are going super bonkers so please stay safe. 
> 
> -Jessa


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Inner Demons" by Julia Brennan  
> "Cause inner demons fight their battles with fire. Inner demons don't play by the rules. They say just push them down, just fight them harder...so angels, angels, please just keep on fighting. Angels don't give up on me today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you spot the canon?

Chapter 17

FIVE YEARS AGO

**Dean**

                There have been three times in Dean’s short life that he’s experienced living death.

                Once, when he watched his mother burn, his baby brother’s warm weight in his arms anchoring him in heat and smoke and destruction. The second, when a police officer approached Dean after his International Markets seminar to ask him to identify his father’s body.

                And now, when Cas’s eyes are swimming with hurt and he knows, knows all the way to the marrow of his bones, that this time there’s no fixing it.

                The din of the emptying bar is drowned out by the ringing in Dean’s ears. He only snaps to it when Anna shoves his shoulder, _hard_. For a wispy little thing, she’s got a hell of an arm. Dean goes back a step and drags his gaze away from Castiel to the instrument he’d used to single-handedly ruin everything.

                “I’ll go talk to my brother,” Anna says quietly. “I think you should probably say goodbye to your guests.”

                His mouth is dry and his body feels weighed down by fifty-ton bricks, but Dean forces himself to nod. To walk towards Sammy instead of following her to Cas.

                _It’s over, it’s over, it’s over, I fucking did it this time,_ plays in repeat in Dean’s head, and it takes a few slow blinks to register that Sam’s speaking.

                “Hey, c’mon, I’m gonna take you home,” Sam’s saying, and his tone is gentle, coaxing. It pisses Dean right off.

                “I’m fine. Go home.”

                “Everyone’s gone. You can’t drive,” Sam argues, pushing back the hair flopping forward with jerky motions. Dean does a quick inventory and realizes with a start that the bar _is_ empty, aside from two girls attempting to wrestle their drunk and fumbling friend through the door and a booth in the back, by the bathrooms, where he can just see the tops of a dark head of beautiful hair.

                “Just go, Sam. I’ll call a cab.”

                “But-”

                “I said GO!” Dean shouts, and feels instantly guilty when Sam winces away, eyes going large and wounded puppy-like. _Fuck._ “Sorry, Sammy. Just…please. Okay?”   

                Without a word, Sam swipes his keys off the counter and storms out. Dean’s done it again, and he knows he’s going to owe Sam a hell of an apology, but it’s just another debt for karma to bill. 

                A shuffle disrupts the falling quiet of the Roadhouse. Dean turns away from the siren call of whiskey in time to see Anna shoot Cas a deeply worried look and disappear through the entrance.

                And then there were two.

                Cas approaches him, and they both studiously admire Ellen’s collection of imported beverages. Dean’s limbs are threatening to give out, but he holds himself steady against the bar. He’s going to make this easy on Cas. That’s the least he can do.

                “I’ll clear my things out by tomorrow,” Dean whispers, and the German label of the bottle he’s analyzing temporarily blurs.

                “What? Why?”

                “W-why?” Dean repeats, incredulous, and now he _does_ turn towards Cas. The other man is staring at him, and the sight of those blue eyes filled with such chaotic anguish hits Dean like a fist to his solar plexus. God, but what could a man as forgiving and kind as Cas have done to be cursed with a task as damning as loving Dean?

                “I just kissed your sister. In front of you.” Dean’s brows furrow.

                “She explained. I-I understand.” The words are strained and uneven.

                “You und-Cas, are you _shitting me?_ I kissed. Your. Sister. What the fuck is there to understand?” Dean’s voice rises, aghast.

                Cas moves towards him but stops short of touching him. He stuffs his hands in that ridiculous goddamn trench coat and scrutinizes a point over Dean’s shoulder. “Yes, well, I’ve become remarkably adept at understanding.”

                The barb finds it’s target and burrows deep. But Dean’s too distracted to care, preoccupied with the epiphany to end all epiphanies.

                Holy shit. Cas is going to forgive him.

                Cas is going to forgive him and Dean can’t let that happen.

                “I love you, Castiel Novak,” Dean says, and it’s the most lucid and confident he’s sounded all night. Something inside him, maybe honor, maybe conscience, finally unfurls and stretches, freed from its confines at long last. “But just ‘cause you love someone doesn’t mean you should stick around and screw up their life. I should’ve tapped out a long time ago, but I thought-I thought I might-shit, I don’t know what I thought. But I’m not gonna do this to you anymore, man.”

                Panic, desperate and urgent, blooms over Cas, who grabs Dean’s face in his hands and tips his chin to meet his gaze. “What are you doing, Dean? Stop it. You can’t chase me away.”

                _Can’t I?_ Dean thinks sadly, and settles his hands over Castiel’s, allowing himself this last moment, this final connection. Because he’s about to bring it all crashing down on their heads.

                Dean was raised as a master of deception, and he calls on the skills drilled into him. His grip on Castiel’s long fingers goes stiff, bending his hands back and away. Cas searches his face, but Dean knows what he’s finding. Or not finding.  

                “I’m done, Cas. This has been fun, but graduation is coming up. My real life is going to start, and this make-believe thing we’ve got has no place in it.”

                Cas goes white, but he’s resolute when he snaps, “I know what you’re doing. Don’t lie to me.”

                He’s gonna have to pull out all the stops, isn’t he? This bastard will keep searching for the good in Dean and grasping it unless Dean shows him that there’s no good to be found.

                “Au contraire,” Dean clucks. He pushes off the counter and backs up, spreading his arms apart. “I’m finally telling the truth. C’mon, man, don’t act so surprised. We’re kids, we messed around, did some experimenting. Don’t make it to be any bigger than it is.”

                A crack splits Castiel’s martyred patience. A shadow of doubt crosses his face, and his fists clench at his sides. Dean presses his advantage, pasting on his devil-may-care grin and throwing Cas a wink. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. You definitely know how to ride a guy hard and put ‘im away wet, but I can’t exactly take you home, can I?”

                Another fissure through the calm, and this time, Cas spits out, “You don’t have a home, Dean. A home is something filled with love and family, and you’re not capable of either.”

                That’s not true. Dean did have a home, with Cas. They made a crappy one-bedroom apartment in Kansas home, and Dean’s pretty sure he’ll never have that again.

                “Honestly, Cas, it’s kind of pathetic that you’re still here,” Dean says, and swallows back bile. “I treat you like shit, but you keep comin’ back for more. I know you’ve got daddy issues, but I think a therapist will do you more good than a convenient fuck.”

                “Shut up, Dean.”

                “I’m straight.”

                “You don’t sound straight when I’m inside you and you’re screaming my name.”

                “I felt pretty straight when I was kissing your sister in front of the football team. She tastes like strawberries.”

                Cas breaks.

                The hit comes out of nowhere, sending Dean stumbling back and clutching his jaw. The second one he does see coming, but he’s helpless to stop Cas’s fist from driving into his gut. Dean doubles over only to be hauled up against a wall, his face inches away from Castiel’s.

                “You son of a bitch,” Cas seethes, and there’s so much backlogged fury that it blisters Dean straight through. “Four years of my life I’ve given to you. I hid, I lied, I made excuses. And I did it, all of it, for you!”

                “You shouldn’t have,” Dean gasps through the hammering pain in his stomach. Cas’s grip on Dean’s lapel tightens, and Dean’s so fucking proud of Cas for standing up for himself that he’s genuinely beaming when he finishes, “We were never going to be enough for each other.” Translation:  _I will never be enough for you._

                Cas shoves him to the side. His hip connects with the wooden ridge of a table before he’s toppling to the floor. Then Cas is on him, fists flying at his face, his chest. His knee digs into Dean’s sternum as he pounds into Dean, who doesn’t lift a finger to defend himself.

                “Fucking asshole!” Cas shouts. “Waited-” _Hit._ “Four-” _Hit._ “YEARS!”

                There’s a wet crunch and Dean can’t bite back the howl of agony as his nose breaks. Or maybe it’s his jaw? Whatever it is, it hurts like a mother and Dean’s eyes are swelling shut and there are hot tears tracking down his temples.

                A soft, pained noise precedes the weight on his chest abruptly vanishing. Dean can barely take a breath without pain bellowing through him, but he twists his head to track Cas scrambling away from him.  Cas lands on his ass, and he stares at his hands, then Dean, and back to his hands. Horror lines his crumpling face.

                “I tried to understand,” Cas sobs, curling into himself and hurting Dean worse than anything his fists could have done.  “Why wouldn’t you let me? Don’t you think you deserve to be saved?”

                Cas stands, and Dean reaches before thinking, clutching his wrist. _No no no no._ He’s not ready for this. “Wait.”

                For a second, he thinks he feels warm fingers stroking through his hair, but then they’re gone and Cas is shaking him off. “Let me go, Dean.”

                Dean’s not sure how long he lays on the ground after the door whooshes shut behind Cas. Everything hurts. It’s definitely his nose that’s broken, his bottom lip is split, and he can only see a narrow slice of ceiling through his puffy eyes. Crying hurts, too, but Dean does that anyway.

                “Holy shit,” a familiar voice curses, but it’s not Cas, so Dean stays still and keeps counting the horizontal wooden panels on the roof. Sam’s face appears in Dean’s limited visual field. “The guy who called me-is he the one who did this to you? Dean? Say something.”

                Cas called Sammy. Of course he did. Stand-up guy, that Cas. Couldn’t let Dean stew for too long.

                Sam helps Dean sit up. Dean hisses when his ribs protest the new angle, and he wipes a wet smear of red from his chin.

                “Jesus, Dean. You look terrible.”

                Dean releases a humorless laugh. “You should see the other guy.”

 

 

 

THE PRESENT

**Castiel**

                “Do you have a microwave?” Dean asks, gesturing towards the food on the table. “Don’t usually like reheating burgers, but soggy buns are better than a cold patty. Oh, and I got a ranch packet ‘cause I know you’re a freak.”

                Acting for all the world like they’re two buddies having a quick bite, Dean saunters into Castiel’s kitchen. Close on his heels, Castiel watches Dean place the burgers on two plates and put the first one in the microwave. A droning hum replaces the silence.

                “Dean.”

                “Hm?”

                “Are we going to talk about what you told Gabriel?”

                “I didn’t say it for Gabe. Ain’t much to talk about, really. Not like you didn’t know.”

                The microwave beeps and Dean switches out the hot burger and replaces it with the other plate. He leans his hip against the sink and crosses his arms over his chest, meeting Castiel’s gaze steadily. Apprehension flickers across his expression. “Cas? It would help me out if you said something right around now.”

                “What would you like me to say?” Because Castiel could truly use the pointers. His brain has metaphorically packed up and taken a leave of absence. College Castiel would be overjoyed that Dean’s finally crossed this pivotal threshold, but time does not heal all wounds, and the Castiel of now is wary.

                “I dunno, something.” Dean’s tone is laced with frustration. The microwave beeps obnoxiously, and Dean holds Castiel’s gaze for an additional minute before turning with a sigh to take the plates in hand and return to the living room.

                Dean slides the plates onto the table and flops down onto the couch. The couch isn’t large and Castiel normally prefers the comfort of his armchair, but then again, there isn’t usually six foot something sex-on-a-stick fussing over pickles on his couch.

                A foot of space between them on the couch isn’t enough to tamp down the electricity bouncing back and forth between him and Dean, bolts of desire and comfort and familiarity that are muddling Castiel’s already scattered senses.

                Dean lifts a bun from one of the burgers and flicks off the pickles resting above the tomato. They land on the edge of the plate. Replacing the bun, Dean wordlessly slides the plate towards Castiel and starts to reach for his own.

                Castiel shackles Dean’s wrist in a lightning-quick move. Dean opens his mouth to protest, but something on Castiel’s face must make him shut up. His grip on Dean’s wrist tightens, digging into the bone, but Dean doesn’t try to wrench free.

                “You broke my heart, Dean.”

                Dean bites his lip. “I know.”

                “No, you don’t. You don’t know. I was a fucking _wreck_ after your birthday party.”

                Regret and something else-resignation maybe?- settles over Dean. He nods shortly. “And you can’t forgive me for it. I understand, Cas. Don’t…don’t feel bad, or anything.”

                Christ, but Dean’s being uncharacteristically dense. Then again, Castiel’s probably not making himself as clear as he should. In no small part due to the fact that Gabriel’s visit had made him realize he’s still completely and thoroughly in love with Dean Winchester. He’d been all set to make his peace with it, coming to terms that a part of him would always love the infuriating and perplexing man, but then he comes by with burgers and stands up to Castiel’s brother and announces that he’s bisexual.

Gritting his teeth, Castiel drops Dean’s wrist in favor of shoving his shoulder. Dean teeters back from the force. “Haven’t you been paying attention?” Castiel growls. “Forgiving you has never been the problem.”

Castiel hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Wild, out of control, brimming with unspent energy. They’re on the precipice of…something life-altering. Absolute. Dean’s looking at him with a mixture of confusion and tentative hope. They’re both in dire need of sitting down and talking this out. Blind reactivity failed them in the past, and Castiel’s determined to prove that things are different now. He’s different, and if the last week is anything to go by, Dean is, too.

So Castiel forces himself to face forward and eat his burger exactly thirteen inches away from Dean.

Dean was right; the soggy buns mean Castiel has to squeeze tightly to keep the burger’s from falling into dissimilation on his plate. It’s a slippery struggle, and he loses a tomato slice by the time he gets it to his mouth and takes a bite.

Flavor explodes on his tongue, seasoning and peppers he knows couldn’t have been mastered by whatever joint Dean bought these at. Dean tampered with the burgers, and Castiel shows-or more to it, verbalizes- his appreciation with a deep groan. He doesn’t dare lower the burger and risk losing lettuce or onion, so he eats the burger quickly, savoring the taste.

When he’s finished, there’s ketchup and ranch coating his fingers, and Dean’s smirking at him over his half-eaten burger. “That was pornographic, Cas. I was worried I might have to leave the room.”

Flipping him the bird, Castiel goes to the bathroom to wash the sauce massacre off his fingers and returns to find Dean in the kitchen, rinsing their plates in the sink. The scene is so domestic that Castiel almost succumbs to temptation and hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and kisses the hollow under his ear.

“You didn’t have to do that. You bought the food,” Castiel reprimands, bumping Dean aside when he tries to reach for the sponge again.

“You’re too late, I’m already done,” Dean boasts, gesturing to the plates drying in the rack. “And from the state of this kitchen, I didn’t think you’d know where the dish soap was.”          

                “Hardy-har-har.” Castiel picks up the yellow linen towel he keeps at the edge of the sink to soak up excess water and flicks it at Dean. It smacks his cheek with a resounding _thwap_.

 Dean clutches the side of his face and yells, “Ow, Cas, my eye! Dude! I think it’s bleeding!”

                Shit, shit, of course the one time he tries his hand at being playful he takes out Dean’s eyes, of course. What’s proper procedure for this? He has old eye drops from a corneal scratch he got a few years ago, would that do?

                “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Dean pulled up his shirt to cover his eye, baring a tan and freckled torso that Castiel is not getting distracted by, not a whit. But the fabric over Dean’s eye does call forth an old memory, from the long-forgotten days of his childhood.

                “Kneel down,” Castiel instructs. Dean’s single visible brow hits his hairline, and he’s clearly going to argue or joke or do something that’ll make Castiel more likely to knee him in the groin than help him. Reaching forward, he places his hands on Dean’s shoulder and pushes down, not enough to force Dean to the ground, but enough that he gets with the program and drops to his knees on the ceramic floor. Castiel crouches and swats Dean’s hand off the shirt covering his eye and flattens the fabric over the affected area.

                Castiel opens his mouth and presses his parted lips over Dean’s eye. “Uh, Cas, what’re you-whoa!” Dean’s squawk is muffled by the shirt riding over his mouth. Which is convenient, because Castiel is exhaling hot breath onto Dean’s eye and could do without the snarky commentary.

                It’s an old technique his mother used when one of her children complained of a sore or irritated eye. She’d draw them close, tip their chin back so she could study the problem, and use her sleeve or the end of a scarf to cover their closed eye and breathe against it. Castiel would always giggle and complain, but the truth was, it had been strangely comforting, the measured, warm puffs of air, and then the pat on his cheek from his mother when she deemed the issue resolved.

From Dean’s reaction, this practice must have been unique to Castiel’s mother, but the effect is the same. Dean’s other eye drifts shut, and the anticipatory rigidness in his shoulders melts away. He’s even swaying into Castiel by the time Castiel withdraws, regrettably dropping Dean’s shirt to cover his bared stomach once again.

                Dean reaches to rub his still-closed eye, but Castiel stops him. “Don’t, you’ll only agitate the problem.”

                This time, Dean pries open both eyes to spear him with a baffled and darkened green gaze. “Cas, what the hell was that?” He doesn’t sound mad, just curious.

                “An old trick my mother would use to soothe any occipital-related maladies. I’m not sure it’s got any medical validity, but it always made me feel better. Did it…help any? I can fetch a Tylenol.” He moves to rise, but Dean anchors him in place with a hand on his knee. He’s shaking his head, grinning widely.

                “You are the weirdest dude I’ve ever met, you know that?”

                Castiel frowns. Yes, he’s always been very aware of his peculiar nature. Dean notices Castiel’s downturned mouth and quickly corrects, “It’s a good thing. You keep me on my toes. Whenever I think I’ve seen everything this godforsaken world has to offer, you do something like blow hot air on my eye. Which is fine, by the way. I was only messing with you.”

                Messing with him? Castiel briefly considers using the towel to strangle Dean, but Dean looks sheepish and apologetic, so he supposes that'll do. Either Dean’s working towards an elaborate compliment, or he’s insulting Castiel in the floweriest of terms. The backs of his thighs are starting to burn from the effort of maintaining his crouch, but the sensation that overcome him earlier, of impending importance, keeps him anchored in place.

                Dean licks his lips and smooths his thumb across Castiel’s cheek, along the curve of his jaw, to his bottom lip. Castiel stays very still, eyes wide and breath suspended. Dean’s gaze lifts from his mouth and meets Castiel’s, dark and purposeful. “You’re way too good for me, Cas.” He cuts off Castiel’s protest with a warning glance. “You are. And I think that’s the crux of all our problems. I don’t deserve you, and I could never understand what you saw in me. Still can’t, actually, but at least I’m…I’m trying. I’ve learned. You don’t have to tiptoe around me, you don’t have to pretend. I want to be the person you never have to pretend with, let alone _for._ If you’re willing to give me another chance, I promise I’ll never stop trying to deserve you.”

                Somewhere in the cage of his ribs, his heart is gasping, pounding, struggling to supply his body with blood when it’s experiencing it’s own personal crisis. Castiel turns his face into Dean’s palm, pressing his lips to his wrist at the apex of where his light blue veins cross. This can be considered torturing Dean a little, since a brief glimpse of his drawn expression reveals he’s on edge waiting for Castiel’s response. Good.

                “Did you mean what you said earlier?” Castiel queries, gently removing Dean’s hand from his cheek and tangling their fingers together. He almost gets distracted from Dean’s answer, mesmerized by the sight of his lean, pale fingers intertwined with Dean’s strong, tan ones.

                Dean’s also staring at their interlocked hands. “I say a lot of things. Wanna narrow it down?”

                Castiel rolls his eyes. “What you said to Gabriel.”

                “Oh. That.”

                Dean pauses for so long that Castiel begins to unwind their fingers, a sinking feeling in his chest. He was wrong. Nothing’s changed. Dean is still holding back, still ashamed, still-

                “I’m bisexual,” Dean says, and drops Castiel’s hand in favor or grabbing his thighs and yanking forward. With a muffled curse, Castiel loses his balance and spreads his knees at the last second, straddling Dean’s lap and colliding with his chest. Their foreheads whack together, and they groan in unison.

                “That was poorly executed,” Castiel grumbles. “I may be concussed.”

                “Got you on my lap, didn’t it?”

                Castiel uses his slightly elevated height to cradle Dean’s face and peer down at him. “So you’re…out?”

                “Well, I’m out to Benny, your brother, and that smarmy European. Although I think Sam’s hot on the money, too, but I’m planning on sittin’ down with him real soon and letting him know.” Dean hesitates, and a shadow of vulnerability causes him to avert his gaze to Castiel’s nose. “I won’t make you hide ever again, Cas.”

                Before Castiel can banish the shadow, Dean’s brightening and settling Castiel deeper into his lap. Which Castiel’s body is one-hundred percent on board with. “I’m gonna show you off and do all that cringey shit teenagers do, kiss you under the mistletoe, post photos of you in my bed, make out in public until Sam’s gagging and a waitress has to tell us that ‘this is a family-friendly establishment, sir’.”

                Castiel is silent, staring owlishly at Dean, who blushes. “I mean, if you’ll have me. If you need time to think, that’s totally cool, I’m gonna talk to Sammy and the people in my life regardless. Coming out is about me, not you, and there’s absolutely no pressure. Take your time. Or you could say no right off the bat, if that’s what you want. Would make this whole kitchen floor thing kind of awkward, but I can roll with the- _oomph_!”

                Deciding he’s had quite enough of Dean’s adorably misguided babbling, Castiel opts to keep Dean from running his mouth by covering it with his own. He’s unresponsive for half a second, and then lips move against Castiel’s, eager and warm. Castiel runs his fingers through soft hair at the back of Dean’s head. He tugs it gently, tipping Dean’s head back and deepening the kiss. Unlike their last time, there’s no urgency. Dean’s tongue slips into Castiel’s mouth, traces along his upper lip, tasting and taking.

                “Wait, wait,” Dean gasps, breaking away. Their labored pants echo in Castiel’s tiny kitchen.

                “What is it?”

                “I wanna ask you something.”

                “Yes, you can be on top.”

                Dean shoves him, sending him sprawling on the floor-which could really use a good session with a Swiffer- with a bark of laughter. He crawls towards Castiel’s horizontal form and hovers over him. “Not that, you ass. How do you feel about coming with me to Sam’s wedding?”

                Castiel abruptly stops laughing. Shock vibrates through him like a plucked violin string. Dean’s chewing on his bottom lip, his heart bared open for Castiel. If Castiel had had any doubts that this Dean isn’t the same one who deflected and dodged and buried his feelings behind a wall of cement and denial, they’re gone.

                He wants Castiel to come with him to Sam’s wedding? Sam, the most important person in Dean’s life?

                “As your date, right?” Castiel checks.

                Dean sniffs. “Duh.”

                “Then I’d love to be your date, Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmurs. Dean’s answering smile is so beautiful it hurts, and Castiel can’t resist touching the tip of his finger to that smile. Icarus drawn to the blinding sun.

                “Awesome,” Dean breathes.

                There isn’t much talking done after that point. Later, when Castiel introduces his brand-new Swiffer to the debauched kitchen floor, he realizes he’ll never be able to cook without an erection again.

               

**Dean**

Dean Winchester doesn’t do happy.

                Content? Sure. Resigned? Yep. Going through the motions until time runs together and tomorrow looks like yesterday? Hell yes.

                So this current state of being is new for him.

                He’s had his head in the cloud since yesterday. It survived the morning reports, the dismal lack of progress on their perp, and Benny’s knowing smirks. But now he’s about to head out of the station to meet Sam for lunch, and there’s a tight knot of anxiety in his gut threatening to drop-kick his ass straight down to Earth.

                It doesn’t help that Jo’s been not-so-subtly spying on him since he came in. She probably thinks he doesn’t notice her multiple visits to the coffee station down the hallway, but he’s not an idiot. There’s only so much of that tar you can imbibe before they’re rolling you down to the morgue.

                He bumps into her on his way out and holds on to her slim shoulders before she can make her escape. Jo winces, caught.

                Dean opens his mouth to read her the riot act, but what comes out is…well, him coming out. “I like dudes.” 

                Jo’s head whips back like Dean’s sucker-punched her. Dean’s lungs hold his breath hostage. Jo’s expression settles from surprise to mild annoyance, and Dean fears the worst.

                “Yeah, and the sky’s blue. Is that it?”

                Phew.Dean sucks in some much-needed oxygen and releases Jo with a snort. “You’re such a pain. It wasn’t that obvious.”

                “Dean, we shared a cubicle when you moved here. I’ve seen your computer search history.”

                “Jesus, Jo!”

                “What? Is this why your moods' done a one-eighty? You’ve embraced your inner dick-loving self?”

                “I’m out of here,” Dean grumbles, elbowing her aside and striding down the hall. Jo’s like a dog with a bone, trailing him all the way to his baby. “No, but really, Dean. Did you meet someone?”

                Unlocking his car, Dean takes pity on her and shrugs. “Maybe.”

                She shrieks loud enough to punch a hole through his ear. “I knew it! Who is he? What’s he like? When can I meet him? Are you going to see him right now?”

                “I’m pleading the Fifth,” Dean hedges, but a stupidly giddy grin gives him up. “But he’s pretty damn awesome.”

                Instead of slaking her curiosity, that only seems to ignite it further. Dean narrowly escapes unscathed, waving at her as he speeds down to the Mediterranean place he’d gone with Sam and Jess after their tailor had finished poking Dean’s body full of holes.

                The nerves he’d managed to forget for a minute return in full force. Logically, Dean knows he’s got nothing to fear from Sam. He’d never judge or diminish Dean. They’d only had each other to depend on most of their lives. At some of the lowest points of his life, Sam was the only thing that kept Dean getting up every morning, kept him from slinking into the darkness and giving in to it. Anyway, Sam’s inherited too much of Mary to ever shy away from Dean and his demons. Dean sees his mother in Sam sometimes, and the resulting pang of nostalgia in chest helps him understand why John hadn’t been able to bear Sam’s presence for long. A shame, that John Winchester had a son that disappointed him for not being enough, and another for being too much.

                Parking at the restaurant is bitch, and Dean’s distracted from his despondency by snarling at a ballsy fucker who nearly backs into Baby’s right headlight. He restrains himself from flashing his badge and writing the guy a ticket, but as much as he’d like it to be, douchebaggery has yet to become a criminal offense.

                Inside, he easily spots Sam’s over the crowd, seated at a corner booth and scrutinizing the menu as if he hasn’t already seen it a thousand times. A swell of affection for the Sasquatch has tears pricking Dean’s eyes, and he stops to clear his throat and gather himself before dropping across from Sam.

                “Have you ever tried a samosa? I think I’m gonna get it,” Sam announces without glancing up from the menu.

                “They’re good. You should try them.”

                Something in Dean’s voice pulls Sam’s attention away from the menu. His forehead furrows. “Are you okay?”

                Now or never. Dean squares his shoulders and thinks of Cas, half his hair matted to his head from the pillow and grabbing at Dean when he gently extricated himself from the covers and Cas’s clinging limbs. Dean was treated to a flash of blue and a sleepy smile before Cas rolled over, mumbling something about Greeks and the sun.

                “Yeah. Better than ever, actually. Um, there’s something I need to tell you.”

                Sam closes the menu and leans back, features smoothing into blankness. “Shoot.”

                “I’m bringing a plus one to the wedding.”

                “Okay? And you’re worried Jess is going to kill you for the last minute change?”

                “I’m bringing Cas.”

                Unlike…well, everybody, Sam’s expression doesn’t change. In fact, he seems downright bored. “By bringing Cas, you mean…”

                “As my date. I’m bringing him as my date.” There. No going back.

                A waitress approaches their table, but Sam holds her off without breaking away from Dean’s gaze. He gives a perfunctory nod. “Alright.”

                ….“That’s it?”

                “What, am I supposed to pretend I’m shocked?”

                “It would help, yes,” Dean harrumphs, put out. Was there a rainbow flag tattooed on his forehead or something? “How long have you suspected?”

                At this, Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude, we lived in a small town. I heard things. And you know, Dad…would say things. When he was drinking.”

                Dean jaw works. It figures John couldn’t keep his mouth shut even when he was the one terrified that Dean’s sexuality would see the light of day. “I’ll bet.”

                “But I didn’t really know until you started college. Man, nobody talks about their tutor like you talked about Cas. And it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together after your birthday party.”

                The mention of Dean’s disastrous twenty-first birthday has him gritting his teeth and pushing back memories he’d rather not relieve. “Yeah, I really fucked that up.”

                “No kidding,” Sam agrees unsympathetically. “When they drugged you up to put the stitches on your cheek, you babbled. A lot. I thought you’d finally embraced the hallelujah and were going to tell me all about you and Cas, but you just woke up, shut down, and went into a funk for months.”

               Dean cringes at the thought of what he might have said under the influence. “I get it, Sammy. Trust me, nobody knows more than me how much I fucked up with Cas. I’m trying to do things better this time around.” And he would succeed, dammit. He had to.

                The waitress shows up again, bringing their conversation to a temporary halt. Sam orders samosas and the sheesh-kabob platter. Dean orders his usual shawarma with the fixings. His phone buzzes in his pocket while Sam’s questioning the waitress over the type of oil used to fry the samosas-“Extra virgin oil? Olive oil? Oh God, canola oil?”- and Dean reaches for it while his brother pisses off their server.

                It’s a text from Cas. There’s an attachment with the caption, ‘You’ve defiled my tiles’. Dean clicks it and laughs aloud when a selfie of Cas and a Swiffer stick opens. Cas is attempting to glare at the camera, but the corners of his mouth are turned up. He looks gorgeous, and Dean can’t wait to go back and defile the rest of Cas’s apartment.

                He replies in kind and sends him a picture of Sam, who’s regarding Dean with a kind of fond amusement.

                _By the way,_ he writes, _Cat’s out of the bag._

Sam’s sigh is beleaguered and overdramatic. “If you’re just going to text your boyfriend the whole time, at least give me your pita bread.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently collapsed from the sheer effort of grinding out this mofo of a chapter. Hot diggity damn, that was no fun. Sorry for the long wait, I self-published a book I've been working on for a gazillion years and lemme tell you, if I never see the words 'Formatting error' again, I'll die a happy woman. 
> 
> Home-stretch from here, loves!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Turning Pages"-Sleeping at Last
> 
> 'I surrender who I've been for who you are. Nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart. If I had only felt how it feels to be yours, I would've known what I've been living for all along."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unplanned hiatus!

Chapter 18

**Dean**

                When Jess found out Cas was coming to the wedding as Dean’s date, she was suitably horrified.

                “HE HASN’T BEEN FITTED FOR A TUX!” she screamed, barreling down the hall to presumably find her phone and call Milos the Impaler.

                Dean and Sam had exchanged exasperated before heading to Sam’s kitchen to start prepping dinner. Jess had hounded Dean while he was trying to season the frickin’ chicken breasts in peace, demanding Castiel’s measurements because “He might have to get something off the rack, Dean!”

                Dinner’s over and he’s helping Sam with the dishes. He chuckles a little, remembering the last time he was over for dinner, when he was reeling from his meeting with Cas and scrambling for ways to see him again. Now Cas is coming with him to his baby brother’s wedding and they’ve been texting nonstop. The recital dinner is tomorrow, and the day after, his Sasquatch will be a married man.

                The concept of marriage and happily-ever-after had never sat right with Dean. One could blame his shitty upbringing for that, because he most certainly does. Marriage means dependency, vulnerability, commitment… anathema to Dean. People got divorced, people died, and people just got bored. Hell, when Sammy announced he was matriculating to UCLA and oh, he’s getting married in the fall, Dean flipped the fuck out. He’d met Jess once by then and yeah, she seemed like a cool chick, but marriage? At twenty-fresh outta the stroller-two? He’d done his best to knock some sense into Sam, but the doe-eyed bastard was a Winchester, and his stubborn streak ran wide and true. Nothing Dean said could sway him, and he’s glad for it.

                The unfathomable notion of forever…well, he can see why Sammy might have the right idea, locking it down. It’s fast and dumb, but when he thinks of forever now, he thinks of a writer with bedhead and ink marks staining his fingers.

                Yeah, Dean can kind of get the appeal of forever.

                “Dude, you’ve been caressing my plate for like twelve minutes and I’m gonna have to kindly ask you to step away from the silverware.” Sam gestures to where Dean’s been drying the same dish for a while.

                “I’m being thorough, bitch.”

                “You’re molesting my dish, jerk.”

                Before Dean can deliver a stinging rebuttal, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He balls the towel and lobs it at Sam. He skims over the caller ID and puts the phone to his ear. Sam’s flicking water at him, so he wanders away from the oversized child to the living room.

                “What’s up, Jo?”

                “I’m glad I caught you. You need to come in to the station.”

                Immediately, Dean’s feelings of contentment and relaxation evaporate, leaving him cold. “Is it about the serial?”

                “It’s…related to the serial. I can’t divulge much over the phone, you know, just in case.”

                “Alright, I’ll be there in twenty. Sit tight.”

                He ends the call with Jo and dials Cas. It’s usually a hit or miss whether Cas will answer his phone, since he tends to misplace it in places like the dishwasher or the fridge. This time, he answers on the third ring.  “Hello, Dean.”

                “Hey there. How’re you doin’?” He tries to keep his anxiety from leaking through and fails miserably.

                “I’m fine. You, however, are not. What’s going on?”

                Just hearing Cas’s rumbling voice is soothing the worst of Dean’s panic, like cool water flowing over a burn. He hates this, hates how his clearheaded perspective is compromised. It’s probably what that asshole was hoping to accomplish by writing Dean’s name next to the Cas look-alike. “I have to head to the station. Are the patrols still going around your place?”

                “Um, let me check.” There’s a creak and the sound of fabric rustling. “Yes, they’re still outside. Why?”

                Dean exhales, tension in his chest loosening a fraction. “There might be something about the serial, but in case it’s some kind of trap, I wanted to make sure you’re covered.”

                “I’m covered?” Cas repeats, flabbergasted. “What about you? You’re the one he knows by name. Who’s covering you?"

                While Cas’s worry is touching, it’s misplaced. Dean’s job is to put himself on the line. Sure, that doesn’t mean he runs around lookin’ to get shot by criminals, but still. Cas’s job is to write books and Dean’s is to catch bad guys, and never should the two meet.

                “Don’t you worry about me. Do you still want me to come over afterwards?” he asks hesitantly.

                “Do I want you to-yes, Dean, I want you to come over. Today you came out to your friends and your family. The least I can do is make you something to eat.”

                “You’re gonna cook for me? I’m flattered, but are you forgetting the last time you tried that?”

                “We agreed not to discuss that.”

                “’m just saying, it’s a good thing the place isn’t a rental, or I’d be out of a security deposit.”

                “Just for that, you’re having Ramen for dinner.”

                Dean is smiling at his shoes like an idiot when his frenzied sister-in-law to-be materializes out of nowhere. “Is that Castiel? It is, isn’t it? Gimme!” Without further ado, she yanks the phone from Dean’s ear.

                “Hello, is this Castiel? Hi! I’m Jessica Moore, I don’t know if Dean’s mentioned me, but you’re coming to my wedding-and I presume the recital dinner- and I wanted to ask what your tux situation is?” Jess paces the floor, elbowing Dean aside when he tries to reclaim his phone. He can’t take another pointy elbow to the pec so he huffs and waits for the drill sergeant to finish.

                “Really? Hugo Boss? Oh, oh that’s perfect,” Jess murmurs reverently, and Dean takes advantage of her momentary stupor to slip the phone away and hurry towards the front door, cutting off her indignant shout with his escape.

                “Sorry about that,” he sighs into the phone, slipping into the Impala and revving the engine. He puts Cas on speaker and mounts his phone in it’s cradle above the cassette player. He’s gonna have to book it if he wants to get to the station within the prescribed twenty minutes he promised Jo. “I swear, she's normally less psychotic.”

                Cas’s laugh is warm and rich in Dean’s car. “I don’t mind a little crazy.”

                “What’s a Hugo Boss? She looked indecently excited about it.”

                There’s a tapping sound, and Dean wonders if Cas is on his laptop. Writing, maybe? It would be a new development, since Cas hadn’t been able to write a word unless he was alone and the room was silent in college. Then again, Castiel’s writing is still a huge question mark, one that Dean’s gotten over trying to uncover. Maybe someday Cas will trust him with it.

                “A tuxedo brand. I bought it a few years ago to attend Michael’s wedding, and it’s been collecting dust in the back of the closet ever since.”

                Unbidden, the shitty joke flies out of Dean’s mouth. “Like me!”

                There’s a pause where he thinks Cas is about to hang up and ship himself across state lines, but it’s broken by a loud guffaw. “Yes, like you.”

                They chuckle and fall into a comfortable lull. Dean’s luck panned out for once, keeping the streets traffic-free.

                “I’m proud of you, Dean,” Cas says softly. Dean startles, having accustomed to Cas’s quiet breathing in tune to the hum of the engine. The words filer through quickly, though, and produce a rush of affection and peace the likes of which he’s never known. To his embarrassment, tears prick the corners of his eyes.

                “Thanks, Cas,” he whispers. “Thanks for being you.”

                Dean parks in front of the station, but he has absolutely no desire to enter the one-story brick-and-mortar building. The compulsion to drive to Castiel’s has increased tenfold, and it’s with herculean effort that he removes the keys and switches the phone back to his ear.

                Time’s up when he reaches the double doors leading inside. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be h-I’ll be back soon.”

                “Alright,” Cas murmurs. “Be safe, Dean.”

                Neither of them hang up.

                Cas is the first to laugh. Dean follows, shaking his head at the air. “We’re such saps.”

                “No argument there. Would you like me to hang up?”

                “Yeah,” Dean says, and because he’s apparently lost motor function of his tongue, he adds, “I don’t think my brain’s cooperating.”

                “We have plenty of time, Dean,” Cas reminds him, and there’s a promise there that thrusts _forever_ back to the forefront of his mind. Instead of terrifying him, Dean finds himself playing Russian Roulette with his tear-stained, traitorous eyeballs.

                “You bet your ass we do.”

                Cas finally hangs up. Dean slips the phone into his pocket and inhales the slightly dusty, wet night air of the city that’s become home. All his good-will to the world comes to a screeching halt when he enters the station and sees the state it’s in.

                Where there should be heads bent behind desks, officers bustling up and down the halls, on the phone or typing away, there’s absolute stillness. Every officer is bristling, gun held loosely on their laps, and chairs pointed towards the hall that leads to Dean’s office. He almost stops to ask what’s going on, but he’s the commanding officer here, and his staff is clearly on edge. Leaders don’t show fear. Leaders, for all intents and purposes, are immutable and unflappable.

So Dean shoots them what he hopes is a reassuring look and strides to the source of the strife. He has to admit, when he pushes open the door to his office, right hand closed around the butt of his gun, he’s almost expecting some kind of hostage situation or a roomful of the FBI’s Most Wanted.

What he finds is worse.

“Ah. Mr. Winchester, I presume?” a short, dark-haired man intones from where he’s seated delicately across from Jo, who jumps up in relief at Dean’s arrival.

At least now Dean now why he’s got uniforms out there ready to draw blood.

“Jo, what’s going on?” He pointedly ignores the enormous menace in their midst.

Round the desk on quick feet, Jo pries Dean’s fingers away from his gun, where they’d subconsciously tightened. “He’s here as an informant.”

“An informant?” Dean scoffs. “On who, himself?”

“On our serial,” Jo hisses. Dean’s mouth clamps shut, and he notices that Jo’s just as agitated as everyone else, just doing a better job of hiding it. Because if this is true, if someone with as big of a target on their backs as Crowley is voluntarily walking into a police station to ‘fess to something, then they need to shut up and listen.

“Like our lovely little miss said, I’ve got information you might find pertinent to your ongoing case, Lieutenant. I’d like to divulge it alone, if you will.” He fakes a condescending wince at Jo. “You understand, I’m sure.”

When Jo’s only reaction is a slight uptick of her eyebrow, Dean reminds himself to look into giving her a promotion. Anyone with self-control like this deserved to have multiple medals above their fireplace. Ignoring Crowley, Jo silently inclines her head. A question.

Dean nods, and she turns on her heel. She closes the door quietly behind her, and Dean’s respect for Joanna Beth rockets to meteoric levels.

Crowley stands up. Dean twists fully towards him. He’s itching to whip out his gun. For the leader of the most notorious, volatile, and bloodthirsty gang on the West Coast, Crowley is surprisingly unassuming. He’s stocky and shorter than Dean by several inches. Apparently he shops at Mobs-R-Us, because he’s dressed in black from head to toe.  

But there’s the malicious glint in his dark eyes that warn Dean not to take him at face-value.

Dean rounds the desk, and while he’d much prefer to be standing and within easy shooting maneuverability of Crowley, he sits down. As if he can scent Dean’s discomfort, Crowley flares his nostrils and smirks, resuming his seat opposite Dean.

Every badge from here to Canada has tried to pin this motherfucker down for the crimes Crowley and his legions of self-proclaimed ‘Hellhounds’ have committed up and down the coast. Murder, kidnapping, torture, the horror show goes on and on, but Crowley and his Hellhounds never made it into a courtroom. Sure, a few arrests were made, but fancy lawyers always weaseled them free on grounds that evidence was circumstantial or on claims of forensic tampering.

Dean’s got a modern-day Al Capone in his office, and there’d better be one hell of a reward for his tolerance. “What kind of information do you have?”

Crowley’s studying Dean intently, fingers forming a steeple under his chin. “I can almost understand why he’s taken such a fancy to you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Alistair. Your ‘serial’, I believe you called him.”

 _Alistair._ The monster has a name. Dean sits straighter. “What do you know about him?”

Before Crowley can answer, Dean stops him with a furrowed brow and asks what he should’ve as soon as he walked into the office. “Why are you telling us this? What’s in it for you?”

                Crowley’s answering smile makes Dean’s skin crawl. “Good head on your shoulders, Mr. Winchester. Here’s what you need to know: Alistair is an…estranged associate. He’s gone rogue, and I’m a man who doesn’t like loose ends. Alistair poses a danger to my business, and his actions thus far have been...unseemly.”

                Which is skeevy-speak for Alistair is a Hellhound free of his chains, and Crowley doesn’t like an uncontrolled variable. Dean can get on board with a selfish, slimy asshole looking to clean up his territory if it means they can nail this Alistair's ass to the wall. 

Dean doesn't share this, though, and narrows his eyes. "Unseemly? Thought murder and mayhem was par for the course for you people."

"People like me? I wasn't aware you harbored any ill-will for the Scottish, Mr. Winchester."

"Only the killin' kind. Stop screwing around. Where can I find Alistair?" He twitches with excitement at the prospect of slamming that bastard behind bars, of knowing Cas is safe and secure. 

"Oh, you won't find Alistair. He'll find you." Crowley says it with complete certainty, like it's already a foregone conclusion. Dean ignores the chill that creeps along his spine. 

He's gonna ask Crowley if he only showed up to piss Dean off some more, but ends up with, "Why me?" Because that's what he really wants to know. Dean ain't nothing special, not really. Hasn't even made a newsworthy arrest since his days as a beat cop. So why this Alistair's got a boner for fucking with Dean is beyond him. 

Crowley fiddles with his cane, stroking the silver-headed hound serving as the head. He studies Dean as if he can find the answer if he squints hard enough. A shadow of a frown crosses his scruffy face. "The answer to that, I'm afraid, is lost to us both."

 

 

 

By the time Dean leaves the station, all he wants is to fall face-first into his memory foam and never move again. But he wants to see Cas more than he wants sleep, which is...wow.  It's late, but Cas keeps weird hours and answers Dean's knock before it's done reverberating. 

Despite his work-related irritation, Dean grins wide at the sight of Cas's bedhead, which is somehow worse than usual. He's also treating Dean to an adorably disgruntled glare. It's confusing his brain, which wants to simultaneously fuck him and wrap him up in a blanket. "You let a colony of squirrels nest in your hair?" 

"For the-get in here," Cas snaps, tugging Dean's sleeve and reeling him into the apartment. The door closes behind him, and he's all over Cas like flies on cake. He melts against those full lips, licking into his mouth and savoring the slow slide of their tongues. Sighing into Dean's mouth, Cas ghosts his teeth along Dean's bottom lip before drawing away. When Dean tries to chase his lips, Cas holds him back with a firm hand. "Why didn't you answer my texts?"

"Wha-oh, did you text? Sorry, phones off. Jess keeps calling to make sure I haven't forgotten the rings or I dunno, killed Milos instead of picking up my tux." The scrawny European was nowhere in sight when Dean stopped by to collect his suit, so Dean's revenge will just have to go unexacted. 

If possible, Castiel's scowl deepens at the explanation. "There's a serial killer obsessed with you, Dean. If you're going to be at the station late, and least pay me the courtesy of a call so I don't go crazy worrying." Cas shoves a hand through his hair, and Dean starts to realize it was less colony of squirrels, more worst-case scenario panic that caused the disheveled hair. Guilt twinges in Dean's belly. He wraps his arms around Cas's waist, drawing him flush against Dean. 

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Dean apologizes sincerely. He traces his knuckles along the cut of Cas's cheekbone before delving the hand into his thick mass of black locks. "I didn't mean to make you worry. It's just been a long time since I've had someone waiting up for me, y'know?"

"It's been a lot time since I've done any waiting up," Cas admits. He nuzzles Dean's cheek, his stubble scratching against Dean's clean-shaven jaw and igniting all kinds of thoughts about where exactly he'd like to feel that stubble. "I'm not clingy, Dean. I don't require you to alert me to your whereabouts all the time, or be home by a certain time, or...whatever else. But until this person is caught, I'm going to need you to let me know you're okay. I just got you back. I can't- I won't-"

"Cas, hey, breathe," Dean soothes, brows pinching worriedly. Cas is by no means a weak or fragile man, but he's shaking against Dean, fingers scrabbling for purchase against Dean's waist. "This is the job. There's always gonna be an Alistair or a Crowley. But I'm not going anywhere, alright? You're stuck with my very-much-alive ass for a while."

"Did you just say Crowley? Crowley as in-" Sticking his tongue down Castiel's throats seems effective in shutting Cas up. His worry is pointless. Danger and death follow him, but Dean's gonna do his damndest to make the chase a long one. He's not ready to give up the sweet taste of Castiel's mouth, or forget the guttural moans vibrating through his chest. 

Cas steers them to the couch, fumbling with Dean's belt buckle and mouthing at his neck. They fall in a tangle of limbs, but Cas is a man on a mission, shoving Dean's pants to his ankles. He hooks his thumbs in the elastic of Dean's boxers and barks, "Lift." 

The command sends any remaining blood south. He quickly obeys, lifting his hips off the couch so Cas can tug his boxers down. His half-hard dick swells under Cas's hungry appraisal, brushing the white undershirt he wears under his uniform. Which, shit, how could he forget? "Wait, wait, I gotta take off my holster. I brought my gun."

Knowing his aversion to firearms, Dean's expecting Cas to recoil or give him a lecture. But all he does is lean back enough for Dean to unstrap the holster from his fallen pants and set it on the coffee table. Cas stares at speculatively, but when he turns back to Dean, there's nothing but animal passion. "You know, I've always had a thing for authority figures." 

"That so?"

Cas wraps his hand around Dean's erection, wringing a breathy gasp from Dean. "Mhm. And here I've got a big bad Lieutenant spreading for me."

"Not spreading yet," Dean taunts. "But I can be convinced."

Cas strokes Dean leisurely, but his fingers tighten into a fist. On the upstroke, he twists his hold, and Dean yelps at the bolt of pleasure. So much for the demanding cop game. He's putty in Cas's wickedly skilled hands. Cas braces his elbows on Dean's thighs, tucking up Dean's shirt high enough to kiss the juncture of his hips, and higher, to his stomach. He licks the inside of Dean's thighs, nuzzles the wiry crop of hair at the base of his dick, puts his mouth everywhere but where Dean desperately needs it. "Do you want my mouth, Dean?" Cas asks casually, as if Dean's not a squirming mess beneath him. 

"Fuck yes!"

 "Would you like to fuck my throat?"

Dean moans, hips jerking helplessly into the air. "Blow me, Cas!" he snaps, at wits end. "There's no need to yell," Cas replies primly, then promptly swallows Dean's cock to the root. And Dean is  _not_ packing light down there. 

Dean's holds onto the couch for dear life, the muscles in his thighs straining from the effort of staying still. Cas's mouth is velvet heat, it's better than apple pie and beer and hell, Dean's next breath. Cas's dark head bobs over Dean's lap, and the fact that this is Castiel doing this, the Cas he thought he lost and the Cas he's longed for since he was eighteen...Dean nearly tears the fabric of Castiel's cushions as his spine arches. Cas chokes, spit running down Dean's dick in obscene rivulets. 

"Sorry, sorry," Dean says quickly, taking his spit-slick dick in hand as if to ward it away from Cas's mouth. "Got too excited."

"Dean," Cas sounds annoyed, slapping Dean's hand away from his length and claiming it again, a possessive gleam in his eyes. "You're allowed to yank my hair and fuck my mouth. I won't break."

When Dean's sure he's not going to whimper, he manages a strangled, "You sure?"

In answer, Cas grabs his hands from their death-grip on the couch and sticks them atop his head. Dean happily accepts the invitation, combing his fingers through the silky strands of unkempt hair. Which he nearly yanks out by the fistfuls when Cas sucks one of Dean's balls into his mouth, massaging the other with his thumb. "F-fuck  _Cas_."

The tip of Dean's cock disappears between chapped lips, but Cas makes no move to take any more. He suckles at Dean's head, milking precome and pornographic moans from Dean. He licks the slit of Dean's painfully engorged cock. "Did you want a conversation or a blowjob, because I was taught not to speak with my mouth full and can't do both."

"Shut up and suck my dick, Novak," Dean growls, and the minute he's back in Cas's mouth, Dean thrusts upward. Shocked but pleased blue eyes flash to his, and Cas anchors himself on Dean's thighs as Dean lets loose, fucking into the heavenly wet heat of his boyfriend's mouth, and pushing his face down until Cas's nose is buried in pubic hair. Cas's eyes go bloodshot and he coughs when given air, but he urges Dean on and sneaks his hand down his pants, taking himself in hand. The sight is more than Dean can take, the telltale tingling in his belly blasting through his body, and he's panting, "Gonna come, gonna, fuck, CAS!" 

Cas ignores Dean's warning and milks Dean's orgasm, swallowing every drop of Dean's long, shattering release. Dean falls bonelessly back against the couch, but through the haze of pleasure, he registers that Cas has yet to come. "Get up here," he orders, tugging Cas to his feet. His pants are already lowered, and Dean's mouth waters at the sight of that cock, hard and slightly curved and all for him. "Climb on up and let me return the favor."

When Cas doesn't get with the program fast enough, Dean slides down so his head is solidly resting against the back of the couch. "Do you need a written invitation or are you gonna feed me your dick anytime soon?"

"Christ, Dean," Cas moans brokenly, and finally complies, stepping onto the couch and bracing his hands on either side of Dean's head. His cock brushes Dean's sealed lips tantalizingly, and Dean sends one last prayer that he doesn't accidentally throw up or bite down at this angle and opens to take Cas in his mouth. 

Thankfully, Cas is gentler with Dean, his thrusts shallow and spaced, to the point that Dean has to dig his fingers into Cas's firm ass and push to get more of his cock down Dean's throat. It's a good thing Cas was already hard as a rock, because a few pumps and he spends himself down Dean's throat, salty and bitter. They collapse on the couch, both half-dressed, with pants shackling their ankles. It's ridiculous, so teenage and overeager that Dean bursts into laughter. Cas is curved against his chest, Dean's dick resting against his ass and arm tossed around his middle. "What's funny?" Cas yawns. 

"Why do we always end up doing this shit on couches?"

 

 

Despite the nerves plaguing him all day, the recital dinner goes by with flying colors. Cas meets the nearest and dearest to Dean without breaking a sweat, although Dean himself is perspiring like a whore in church. Ellen, Garth, and the rest of the Winchester invitees don't bat a lash at the announcement. Garth  _does_ hug Dean like a wiry spider-monkey, not releasing him until Benny pries his limbs loose. When the formal festivities wrap and everyone is milling around Sam and Jess's place, drinking wine and talking, Ellen takes Dean aside. 

"Hiya," Dean greets her with a shit-eating smile. She is not amused. 

"That's the boy from Kansas, ain't he?"

Fuck. He was hoping she wouldn't make the connection. He's not even gonna bother being surprised she knew about it in the first place. He did practically live with Cas, after all. Ellen's not dense. "The one and only."

The woman has a way of dressing Dean down with nothing more than a well-aimed glare. "He's a sweet kid, Dean. Anyone with eyes can see how much that boy loves you. Stick dynamite in your attitude and be good to him, ya hear?"

Dean huffs, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. There's a warmth brimming in Dean's chest, a large part of him pleased that someone as astute as Ellen thinks Cas is in love with him. "Aren't you supposed to be warning  _him_ not to hurt  _me_?"

"I would if I thought he'd ever so much as jostle a hair on your fool head," Ellen scoffs. Pulling Dean into an unexpected hug, her voice goes soft against his shoulder. "Your mama would be proud of you, hon."

Dean squeezes Ellen and meets Cas's gaze across the room. He's watching Dean worriedly, and when Dean's eyes glisten with unshed tears, Cas weaves his way through the crowd until he reaches Dean's side. He and Ellen pull apart, and although he looks like he wants to plaster himself to Dean's side, Cas only takes Dean's hand and squeezes once. "Everything okay?"

"Peachy," Ellen beats him to it. She pats Castiel's cheek and gives him a genuine smile. "Welcome to the family, sweetie."

Later that night, when they've changed into pajamas and returned to Cas's apartment-since Dean's house is currently serving as a BnB for Ellen and two of Jess's sisters-Dean leans his forehead against Castiel's.  "Hi."

"Hi yourself."

"You did great tonight. They love you."  _I love you._

Cas smiles, pleased. "I'm glad. They're great people." His minty breath tickles Dean's nose.

"I can't believe Sammy's getting married tomorrow. Little bugger's all grown up." Dean gets a little despondent at the thought. Like the time he found out Sam was leaving him for Stanford, Dean hopes this won't be the start of a chasm in their relationship. They've always been close, and Dean can't imagine it any other way.

Sensing his thoughts with his freaky Cas-telepathy, Cas caresses Dean's jaw. "He'll always need his big brother. I'm twenty-six, and God knows what I'd do without Gabriel, frustrating as he can be."

"Aw. You wub him."

"Shut up, Dean," Cas says, but it's affectionate, as is the kiss he drops on the bridge of Dean's nose. 

Dean pushes his between Cas's legs and buries his face in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, needing to be close to him, hating any space between their bodies.  _Forever_ echoes in his chest, and Dean wonders when it stopped being a concept and became Cas. 

Cas kisses Dean's temple and smooths a palm over his back, comforting. At some point in the last two weeks, his heart said sayonara to the rest of Dean and jumped into Cas, and if something happens to him, is somehow that bastard Alistair...Dean shudders, and Cas rubs his back faster. 

Eventually, when Dean's stitched his senses back together, Cas says, "Did I tell you about Gabriel's cat?"

"Gabe has a cat?" 

"More like a hairless, hissing feline from hell. It's eyes were bigger than its face." Cas regales him with tales of the Not-Cat, until Dean's tension unwinds and he's laughing himself into a restful sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone know where a girl can go to find a beta? This baby is wrapping up and I'm already 10k into another fic because I have no self-control :)


	19. The Wedding-Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Story" by Brandi Carlile
> 
> "I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules, but baby I broke them all for you...I was made for you."

Chapter 19- The Wedding: Part One

**Castiel**

~~~~"Yes, Hannah. Yes, ten whole chapters, and a decent draft for the rest of the book." Cas adjusts his tie. At least the tuxedo still fits from Michael's wedding, even if it is a little too snug around his thighs and rear. He'll simply have to remember not to bend over. Then again, he's not usually the one getting bent.

He snickers into the phone. He's spending too much time with Dean.  "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, what's caused the sudden change of heart? Last we spoke, you were quite lackluster about your writing."

Cas seriously considers her question. "I think...I was afraid of the risk. Afraid of getting hurt again. Once I made myself vulnerable in one aspect of my life, the rest opened up. And we both know writing requires a healthy measure of vulnerability." 

"Getting hurt?" Hanna parroted, confused. "Your series is a  _New York Times_ bestseller five times in a row. You have a six-figure book deal. Where's the danger?"

"Vulnerability isn't quantifiable, Hannah," Castiel returns, but it's like explaining linear algebra to a toddler. There's a knock on the front door. A twinge of anticipation flares in his belly. "I have to go. Thank your for your patience."

"Of course, Castiel," Hannah replies, and is Castiel hallucinating, or is that affection in her monotone voice? She hangs up before he can find out, but it's a nice thought anyway.

There's a bounce in his step all the way to the living room. Dean left early in the morning to take care of last-minute best man duties, but he promised to pick Castiel up so they could go to the wedding together. He's exactly on time, which doesn't happen often. 

Unfortunately, it's most assuredly not Dean who barrages in the second Castiel opens the door. "Oh my God," Balthazar purrs. "Cassie. You, that tux."

Gabriel smacks Balthazar in his artfully displayed chest. "I told you I'd leave you in the car if you hit on him again. Spare me, will you?"

"What are you two doing here?" And how is their timing always so remarkably terrible?

Gabriel holds up a grocery bag and shrugs sheepishly. "I was gonna force you to eat something that doesn't come out of cancer-causing plastic, but this buffoon wanted in."

Castiel refrains from asking how Bathazar knew in the first place. These two becoming friends must be some tiding of the apocalypse. "Is it the eggplant dish?"

"Who, me?"

"Shut up," the brothers groan in unison. Gabriel answers Castiel with a nod. "Was gonna throw in one helluva meat loaf, too. But since you're dressed to dine with the Clintons, we can raincheck."

Castiel is truly regretful at missing the meal and the time with his brother. He hasn't been coming by as often, whichever Castiel attributes to Dean's presence, but he misses his overbearing, irreverent company. "I'm attending Dean's brother's wedding as his date, but I would love to reschedule this meal."

"Wedding?" Balthazar balks. Gabriel's eyebrows hitch up. 

"Yes."

"As his date? The kind that sneak off for coatroom hanky-panky or bang in the bride's father's car?" Again, Balthazar.

"Well, I'll give Winchester this much, when he decides to extract his head from his ass and commit, he really swings for the fence," Gabriel states. "I'm not ready to exchange friendship bracelets anytime soon, but...I'm happy for you, Cas."

"Would you look at that, a mirror!" Balthazar exults, darting down the hall. It's ostensibly to give them privacy, and Castiel is reminded of why he liked Balthazar to begin with. 

Gabriel sets the grocery bag on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest. "You know I love your stupid face, right?"

Castiel purses his lips to keep from smiling. "I know you do. I, too, love your hideous self."

Although shorter than Castiel, Gabriel draw a himself to his full height and pokes Castiel's chest. The thunderous intensity of his expression seems to precede some declaration, but Gabriel only huffs out a , "Good. Fucking dick."

"I have been doing a lot of that," Castiel muses, and the tactic works in dissolving the last of the tension. Gabriel retches and complains, "You're worse than that self-fellating Brit."

"I'll have you know, I have been largely unsuccessful at self-fellating," Balthazar sings, waltzing back towards them. "Why do you suppose I'm taking Pilates? Remember when you'd  prop me up on the headboard to teach me, Cassie? He's got no bones in his lower back, this one. Lucky sucker can just pretzel twist and swallow-"

"I WILL THROW MYSELF FROM THIS WINDOW SO HELP ME GOD!" Gabriel shrieks. 

It's the midst of this that Dean makes his predictably late arrival. 

Castiel opens the door, prepared to explain, but words die on his tongue when he catches sight of Dean. The other man seems similarly affected. 

"You look amazing, Cas. Fuck, I'll write Hugo Boss a thank-you note," Dean jokes, but it's attempts at neutralizing the waves of want between them are ineffective. 

Dean's tuxedo fits him perfectly, outlining the broad stretch of his shoulders, the muscled valley of his torso, before tapering around his slim waist. Unlike Cas, Dean's pants fit fine, only lightly clinging to his thighs. Castiel can't wait to see how his ass looks walking down the aisle. 

Then again, haven't they delayed gratification enough? Castiel not-so-gently nudges Dean around.

"Cas, what-dude. Are you. Cas, are you staring at my ass?" Castiel keeps his hands in Dean's shoulders while he drinks his fill of his favorite round, muscled cheeks hugged in black fabric. Castiel wants nothing more than to tear the seam with his teeth and dig into that ass. 

"You done?" Dean asks, amused this time, when another minute passes.

"No. We are going to have to fuck at your brother's wedding."

"I AM STILL HERE!"

Oh. Castiel forgot about his visitors. Dean hadn't even registered them, and Castiel doesn't like the way his face goes stony when he spots Balthazar. 

"Should we all head down, now?" Castiel says. He's not in the mood for another confrontation. Meeting Jessica Moore yesterday struck the fear of God in him, and he won't risk tussling their suits.

Castiel ushers everyone into the hall and locks his door. Halfway to the elevator, Balthazar twists in front of Dean and holds out a hand. "Wait. I'd like to know why His Royal Shittiness has an attitude problem. Last time I chalked it up to surprise, but you clearly dislike me. That in itself isn't abnormal, but people usually make the pleasure of my acquaintance before progressing to blind hatred."

To think, if Castiel had just taken the bus to the wedding, this shitshow could've been avoided. 

Dean's glare would have cut a lesser man to ribbons. Unfortunately for him, Balthazar is the master of pissing people off only to dance on their toes with a smile.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to like my boyfriend's ex-booty call?" 

Castiel blinks, shocked. He'd never mentioned his sexual history with Balthazar. Did Dean just assume, or...

"I personally prefer the term 'butt buddies', but alright, I did carnally worship Castiel at one point in time. But he was my friend first, when he desperately needed one after moving to this soulless pit. You'd begrudge him a friend because of our horizontal history?"

"Not cool, Dean-o," Gabriel adds.

Dean's scowl softens. He glances at Castiel, then back to Balthazar. "You met him after he moved here? Like right after?"

"I did."

"Was he a good friend to you?" Dean asks, and Castiel realizes belatedly the question is directed at him.

Despite the hostility still emanating from Dean, Castiel hazards a genuine smile at Balthazar. Because Castiel was been in pieces after Dean and Balthazar had done his best to glue him back together, albeit with the precision of an ADHD-afflicted toddler. "The best."

 Everything about Dean is fascinating to Castiel. He could write the great American novel about the man. He's spent much of his life absorbing as much of Dean as he could, and he was certain that all the surprises Dean Winchester was capable of had come to pass in the last two weeks. 

But apparently not. 

"Thank you," Dean says to Balthazar, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks for being there for him when I wasn't. If you want to be his friend, I won't stop you. You try anything else, I'll break you like a fucking twig."

Balthazar beams. He pumps Dean's hand. "Agreed, mate."

They walk downstairs in a group, with Balthazar peppering Dean about jail rumors he'd heard, and "This whole 'dropping the soap' business. Honestly, can't prisons simply switch to liquid soap?"

Gabriel falls into step beside him as they descend. He elbows Castiel. "I approve."

"What?" Cas balks. "Since when?"

"Since three minutes ago. As much as I hate to admit it, Anna's right. The idiot's in love with you, that much is clear."

Castiel stops halfway down the stairs. Dean and Balthazar round the banister without noticing. "You're talking to Anna?"

"Duh. Aren't you?"

"Yes. Occasionally."

"She's been wanting to visit, you know. Her birthday's coming up; I wanted to have her over. Is that something you'd be interested in?"

Just the mention of Anna is enough to send a lance of regret whipping through Castiel. The way he treated her after things fell apart with Dean was nothing short of unfair. It wasn't her fault, was no one's fault outside of his and Dean's, but he'd been drowning in loss, and all he could think was maybe they could've kept on pretending if Anna hadn't lit the match in a roomful of gasoline. He owes her many apologies. "Yes. I'd be very interested."

Gabriel's watching him closely, but thankfully doesn't comment on whatever he sees. He nods. "Good. Kidnapping you would've been hard. You've got pointy elbows." 

Outside, Dean's left cheek is twitching, a classic sign that he's five seconds away from tearing Balthazar's vocal chords out. With his teeth. He's by Castiel's side in a flash. "Guess it's time to go. Till next time, fellas."

"See ya, chuckles," Gabriel snorts, and tugs Balthazar away when he moves to hug Dean. He settles on a jaunty wave as they separate to their cars. Castiel can't help laughing while he buckles into the Impala. "Did you and Balthazar bond?"

Dean glares, and it only increases Castiel's glee. Never in a million years would he have imagined Dean and Balthazar meeting, let alone becoming...well, not friends. "He's a character, alright. Wouldn't have pegged him as your type."

Which reminds him. "How did you know about that? That Balthazar and I used to be intimate?"

Dean cringes. "Don't use that word, geez. I, uh, accidentally saw his texts to you the night you were at my house. I thought it was my phone."

"Ah." Should he mad? Technically, it is a breach of his privacy, but he figures revenge has already been served. 

"You pissed?" Dean grunts, glancing worriedly at him. They merge onto the 101 South and are immediately saddled into heavy traffic. 

"No."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I'm too happy to be angry."

At this, Dean's worry softens into pleasure. He clears his throat and squeezes the steering wheel, struggling with something, and then he reaches across the consul to take Castiel's hand. He keeps looking straight ahead, but his lips quirk up when Castiel's hand closes around his. 

They stay like that until the church where Sam's wedding is being held. Castiel pulls away first, preemptively shying away from the hurt that'll accompany any kind of public rejection from Dean. Dean frowns, but doesn't say anything until they've locked the car and are strolling up the steps toward the church. There, where well-dressed people are milling around, some undoubtedly here for Sam's wedding, Dean claims Castiel's hand once again. When Castiel's fingers remain limp, Dean shoots him a glare.

"Hold my hand, dammit."

"Are you certain?" Castiel murmurs, because instinct has reared its head again and he's already spinning a story in case anyone catches them.

 In response, Dean tightens his hold and brings Castiel's hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. "Positive. Now hold my hand like you mean it, asshole."

Their hands are white with how hard they hold onto each other, but Castiel's certainly not going to complain.

 

**Dean**

Nobody shits a brick.

Sure, there isn't a lot of time to introduce his boyfriend to every attendee, but the message is sent loud and clear from how close they sit together, Cas whispering in Dean's ear and leaving a wet kiss behind his ear, and the fat cartoon hearts Dean feels are exploding over his head. It's not like he really expected bricks to be shat, but part of him was     wary. You never know. 

He has to leave Cas to perform his best man duties, but Ellen glues herself to Cas' side and shoots Dean a wink. No one would dare say a sideways word to Cas with Ellen there, not that Cas can't hold his own. The point is, he shouldn't have to. 

"Pay attention to  _me,"_ Sam whines. "It's my wedding day."

"Sorry, princess," Dean smirks. They're in the private rooms adjacent to the main congregation, and Sam's been fussing with his tie for the last fifteen minutes. When he curses and starts loosening the knot for the fiftieth time, Dean smacks his hand away and fixes it himself. 

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says, satisfied with his reflection despite the tie looking exactly the same as when Sam did it himself. 

"You nervous?" Dean asks, because he's antsy as fuck and he's not even the one getting hitched. 

Sam turns to face him, and Dean has to blink against the radiant joy emanating from his little brother. "Not about marrying Jess. That's...that's the easiest thing in the world."

"Then what?" 

A shadow darkens Sam's smile, and Dean immediately heaves a sigh. He knows that shadow. It's the same one that's stalked them since Dean was four, that's loomed over their happiness and crept into their failures. Sam confirms as much when he whispers, "What if I turn into Dad? What if...what if something happens to Jess, and I completely lose it? I love her, I love her so much, but the risk...I want to have a future with her, a future together, but what if something happens to her and I'm left wasting my life chasing a future that I can never have?"

Familiar anger at John burns in Dean's chest. The emotional and physical scars he inflicted on Dean? No big whoop. But fucking with Sammy's head on the best day of his life?

John should be damn lucky he's roasting in hell and not under Dean's fists. 

"Listen to me, kid. You're not Dad. You could never be Dad. Why do you think he resented you so much? You're Mary through-and-through. And the way Mom loved wasn't destructive. It wasn't pain, and it didn't drown you. If God forbid anything were to happen to Jess, you'd pull through. You'd mourn a lost future, but you'd find another one. We're resilient, you and I. We don't break easy. And you can be sure if you start going fruit loops, I'll be there to knock your head on straight. You get me?"

Sasquatch arms wrap around Dean and punch the air out of his lungs. He coughs as Sam's cologne assaults his nose. "Well, okay then."

"I'm really glad Cas is the laxative to your emotional constipation," Sam says against Dean's shoulder. He reels back when Dean wedges his hand between their joined bodies and twists Sam's nipple through his dress shirt. "Ouch! Dude, seriously? A purple nurple?"

"Emotional laxative?" Dean fires back. "Any more of that and Jess'll be stitching you some new nips, got it?"

"Yeah, whatever," Sam grumbles, but the little shit is smiling. "Jerk."

 Dean rolls his eyes. And Dean's the immature one? "Bitch."

 

 

 

There isn't a dry eye in the house when Sam and Jess tie the knot. Sam's vows are heartfelt and a few tears trek silently down his cheeks as he professes to love, cherish, and honor Jess. Jess wipes his tears with her thumb, her own smile watery, and promises to be at Sam's side through thick and thin. 

Dean doesn't cry, no matter what Cas says. 

The reception is being held at Dean's house, since he's not the future lawyer living in laughable housing. There are twinkle lights strewn across the backyard, and Dean had cleared his grill and tools to make room for a dance floor. People filtered in and out of the main house and backyard, coming back for food or the bathroom before dancing it up outside. 

Dean's hogging the guacamole bowl and eyeballing the suspiciously cat-shaped bulge in Garth's jacket when Cas locates him. He dips a chip into the bowl and clocks Dean's missing suit jacket and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. "Please tell me you remember where you left your jacket."

"In the car," Dean says mulishly, even though he's seventy percent sure his jacket is currently occupying a church pew. 

"Mhmm." Cas eats another chip, and licks fallen guacamole off his fingers. Just like that, Dean's suit pants tighten. No fair; he wants to suck Cas' fingers, too. Among other things. "Don't worry, we'll get you back in your flannel soon enough."

"Actually, I'm thinkin' you should follow my lead and ditch some clothes, too." Dean waggles his brows, using Cas' belt loop to tug him closer. He thumbs the jut of his hipbones through his shirt and fights not to slide lower. This is Sam's wedding day, dammit. He'll fuck his boyfriend next to the guacamole bowl another time.

"Later," Cas promises wryly. "We have time."

They have a later, Cas and him. Still, Dean doesn't resist the impulse to run a hand through Cas' rumpled hair and delight in the way his pupils dilate. "Good."

Cas is close to wearing down Dean's resolve not to step foot on the dance floor when every light in the place goes out. Multiple cries ring out in the dark, and something shatters. 

"Dean?" Cas whispers, tight with alarm. Dean knows what Cas is thinking. Dean is thinking it too. 

"I'll be right back," Dean murmurs. This is his house, dammit. His territory. With ease of practice, Dean uses his flashlight and goes into his room, unlocking the safe and extracting his gun. The circuit breakers are outside, behind the garage and away from the guests. He can hear Sam calling for him, but he only hurries faster, striding out the front door and rounding the driveway. His lofts his gun into position, circling slowly. The circuit cover is on the ground, eliminating the slight hope Dean had harbored that maybe this was an accident. 

"Dean, Dean, Dean," a raspy voice tuts. Dean whirls towards the sound, but his gun is knocked to the ground mid-spin. Something soft and sickly sweet smelling presses over his face, an unyielding arm wrapping around his throat. "Thank you for making this so easy."

He keeps struggling, but his limbs feel heavy, moving as if underwater. He knows what he's inhaling into his lungs is chloroform, he knows that any minute now he's going to be dead weight. But he punches and kicks and elbows, because its Sam's wedding day, because Cas is waiting for him, because things are just getting good, because they're supposed to have a later. He's not ready to punch his ticket. 

But sooner rather than later, the darkness edging his vision surges forward, and Dean's world goes black. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh...sorry about the cliffhanger. Apologies that it took two weeks to post this; I moved back into my apartment and my subleasers left it looking like a trash can. My desk chair was covered in mold, guys. MOLD. 
> 
> Anyhow, I won't make you wait on the last chapter long. While I type and battle rare forms of fungi, feel free to drop me a comment or two!


	20. The Wedding-Part Two

Chapter 20-The Wedding, Part 2

**Castiel**

"Sit your ass down and shut the hell up, boy!" Ellen hollers. "Jessica, take your husband out for some air."

"No! I'm not going anywhere! Jo, its been twelve hours and they haven't found anything. How is that possible? He was taken right in front of the house; shouldn't there be surveillance footage? Anything to tell us where this psychopath took Dean?" Sam bellows, towering over the petite blonde in a police uniform. She refuses to cower, though, which Castiel absently finds admirable. Sam's rage and fear have been saturating the already tense atmosphere since last night. 

Last night.

Dean's been missing for twelve hours and the police are useless. 

Sam's emotions are outwardly explosive, and everyone's been distracted with their own worry and with soothing Sam's. No one has paid Castiel much mind further than ascertaining he stays by their side and doens't go home. Castiel appreciates the distance, the non-claustrophobic closeness. It allowed him to slip into Dean's bedroom and call Gabriel, who called his PI, who is a thousand times more qualified to find Dean than the folks in blue. He provided him with all the information, answered his questions calmly, and wired him a deposit as soon as he hung up. 

Castiel's done all he can.

He's been sitting on an armchair in Dean's living room since, hands folded over in his lap, placid and mellow. The food Jess's mother placed on the table by his elbow has long since gone cold. Castiel's done all he can, and now he needs to remember to keep breathing, keep an iron grip on the dark panic, the churning nausea, and the fear. Oh, the fear. He didn't think he was capable of feeling fear like this, like an gaping pit had opened into his chest, sucking whole chunks of him into its endless vortex. 

In the middle of the living room, Jo continues appeasing Dean's giant of a sibling. "We're doing everything we can. We've got officers combing the city. You need to stay calm and let me do my job."

"Sam, sweetheart, lets go for a walk, huh?" Jess tries, tugging at his elbow, but he shakes her off. He rakes a hand through his hair. "Why would he take Dean? I don't understand. Why Dean?"

"We don't know his motives. Take your wife and get some air, Sam," Jo says firmly. 

"I don't want air! I want answers!" 

"Sit down, Sam." 

Castiel's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the din like a razor. Heads turn towards him, and Castiel imagines they're searching for a change in the indifferent mask he's worn all evening. He stands, pinpricks of discomfort in his legs from disuse. "You can't help Dean. None of us can. The least you can do is stop agitating everyone else in the meantime."

Sam flushes, but his frown sets. "I'm doing something. What have you been doing, Cas? Where were you when that fucker took Dean?"

"Samuel Winchester!" Ellen shouts.

"Sam!" Jess and Jo cry in tandem.

Gently but insistently, Castiel nudges Jo aside so he's in front of Sam. The man is absurdly tall, but that doesn't stop Castiel from aiming an icy glare at him. The only thing that's kept him from punching out Sam's lights is the reminder that this is Dean's brother. The most precious person in the world to him. But Castiel has only so much patience, and he's reached the end of his rope. 

"I was inside, along with every other guest. I tried to follow Dean, but he knows his house better than I do and moved faster than I could keep up with. By the time I found his gun outside, it was too late. Don't you dare accuse me of neglecting him. Stop subjecting your family to your displeasure and grow up. Take a page out of Dean's book and take care of the people around you before thinking about your own feelings."

By the time he finishes, Sam's pale, his aggression withering like a popped balloon. Castiel doesn't stick around to hear his reply. "Thank you for the hospitality, everyone. I'm going to be on my way, now."

He cuts off any protests by palming Dean's keys and almost sprinting out the door. He slides into the driver's seat of the Impala and reverses out of Dean's driveway, getting all of two miles away before he breaks down. 

He parks in front of a Gas n' Sip and buries his face in his hands. His entire body shakes, working valiantly to stop Castiel from falling apart. The car smells like leather and pine and Dean. The fact that he's driving Baby is so  _wrong._ Everything is so wrong. What was he thinking, telling Dean's brother to grow up? At least he has coping mechanisms in place, fail-safe's that aren't tempting him to go drown himself in a bottle. 

One minute Dean was looking at Cas like he was the bowl of guacamole Dean just inhaled, and then he had vanished. Castiel doesn't think he'll ever forget finding Dean's gun beside the plastic circuit breaker cover. Like his heart had stuttered and stopped, going cold in his chest. The one time Castiel rode a rollercoaster was when he was fourteen and Michael had teamed up with Gabriel to force Castiel into having some 'big boy birthday fun'. Castiel hadn't enjoyed a second of it, not the climb to the peak of the coaster, not the way his stomach dropped to the depths of the earth on the dizzying descent. 

Finding Dean's gun had felt like that rollercoaster, except he still hasn't gotten off, and with each passing minute that no news of Dean arrives, the descent to the ground looks steeper and steeper. 

By the time he reaches his apartment, his phone has buzzed with calls from Sam four times and he's exhausted to the bone. He trudges upstairs, kicking aside the empty bottles and cans at the end of the hall, and unlocks his door. It only occurs to him for a spare second to be cautious before he sees it. Front and center as soon is a note scrawled in neat, tidy handwriting. Castiel runs his gaze around the empty apartment quickly before bending to pick it up. 

_"Everything's always more fun with an audience, wouldn't you agree? Come alone. If I sense deception, I'll open your lover's throat for the flies."_

Below it is an address to a warehouse less than twenty minutes away. 

Castiel does three things. 

First, he runs to the bathroom and vomits violently into the toilet. 

Second, he checks that Dean's gun is loaded and tries to remember everything Dean taught him. 

Third, he calls his PI.

"Viktor. I need your help."

 

 

**Dean**

 

Everyone's thought about how they'll die. How they'd  _prefer_ to die, like there's a cosmic menu to choose from.  _Strangulation? Oh, I'm afraid that's a lunch-time only meal item. Can I interest you in a fiery motorcycle crash instead?_

Dean's thought about it. Of course he has. And some part of him, the dark, webbed corners of his soul, knew that it would bloody. How could it not? He's a cop. More than that-he's a Winchester.  

He's not sure what time it is. Hours could have passed; days, maybe. When he came to, his arms were shackled to a grimy wall, his legs were bound together, and something dripped in a steady, maddening  _ping, ping, ping._ He'd tried to tug his wrists free, but they're stretched too far away from his body to really draw on any core strength. As for his legs? Forget it. He banged and kicked and wiggled. The abandoned warehouse echoed his desperate shouts back at him. 

The first time Alistair came by, Dean was an inferno of righteous rage, threatening and snarling and vowing he'd live to regret this. Alistair merely smiled, undisturbed, and when the first press of the hot poker to his bare chest registered, he understood why. Funny, how hard he'd thought the demons only he could see, only to be taken down by one he never could have predicted.

Alistair slashed and laughed, slashed and laughed. He'd dig his fingers into Dean's open wounds and revel in Dean's hoarse screams. After Dean blacked out the first two times, Alistair slowed it down. What's the fun if there's no audience, right? 

Dean tried to ask why. He tried, truly. Hell, Alistair might've even answered. But Dean doesn't care anymore. Nothing matters. Nothing outside the raw agony painting his insides, the throbbing burns marking his chest, the inside of his thighs, his neck. Nothing matters unless it makes the pain stop.

When Alistair comes back around from his torture-break, Dean summons a snarl. It's weak, but its better than a whimper. 

"Oh my. Look at you. You must be so tired," Alistair purrs, drawing near. He cradles Dean's face between spindly fingers, and Dean's out of working muscles that can jerk him away. He settles for a flat, venomous glare. "So  passionate. Your heart on your sleeve. Not like the other officers. The young girl-oh, you should have seen your face when you saw her body, Dean. Such bare, honest pain. Riveting. I wanted to see more, but you wouldn't give me your pain unless I caused it. And then, and then...do you know what happened, Dean?" 

"Fuck you."

"Close. You let that writer have what's mine. You gave him your pain, Dean."

Horror grips him.  _Cas_. "You stay away from him."

The flat edge of Alistair's dagger wings across Dean's cheek. "But just imagine how much pain you'd give me if you could see your writer here, bleeding beside you. Don't you want that, Dean?"

His Cas. His beautiful Cas. Not the other half of his heart; Cas is more than fifty-percent of an organ Dean long abandoned as scar tissue. "Touch him and die. You hear me, motherfucker? I'll find a way. I always find a way."

For the briefest of moment, Dean could swear a flicker of uncertainty passes over Alistair's reptilian eyes. But its gone just as quick. "Tut, tut. I thought you were better than this. But you're just like the rest of them: weak, pathetic, bitching yourself out to the first pretty face that happens along. I expected better from you."

A long, thin needle reminiscent of the kind Milos stuck him with appears in Alistair's palm. Unlike Milos, Alistair isn't afraid to prick and prod at Dean's belly like its a fascinating science project. Thus far, the psycho's avoided going near Dean's stomach. Can't drink in Dean's pain if his intestines meet the sun.

Apparently he's had a change of heart. 

Dean's scream gets mangled in his throat. He slams his body back against the wall, but Alistair keeps coming, digging the needle into Dean in short, successive stabs. It feels too deliberate to be random, but Dean's brain is too busy shutting down to figure out the geometry of Alistair's stabs. 

Something crashes. 

Alistair draws away and stills, listening intently. Dean sags, relieved for whatever freezer or broomstick decided to sacrifice itself to give him a second's reprieve. The needle vanishes, pocketed quickly. "Stay here, won't you?" Alistair smirks, and strides in the direction of the noise. 

"Stay here, won't you?" Dean mocks, nasal and high-pitched. He coughs, and he's like ninety-nine percent sure there's blood in his lungs because spit shouldn't dribble so thickly. 

The walls spin, high-fiving the floor or playing Tilt-A-Whirl with Dean as the sucker plastered to the side of the ride. His guts are debating the merits of vomiting again when Alistair returns. He's not alone. 

Dean blinks. He has to be hallucinating. Right? This isn't real. Can't be real. 

The hallucination gasps at the sight of him, hands balling into fists at its sides. It rushes to him, tears tracking down sharp cheeks, wetting pillowy lips. "Dean?" it whispers in a deep, false voice. 

What the fuck was in that needle? Some kind of LSD-type shit? Had to be. Because the alternative, the  _alternative..._

"I'm here. Unchain him," Not-Cas spits at Alistair. 

His hallucination is protective. Doesn't it know Dean's already done?

"Mind if I have a little feel first?" Alistair strolls to Not-Cas, and Dean's body doesn't get the fax from his brain, because he starts thrashing, a growl vibrating through his chest. How dare Alistair try to take this away, too? He can't. He can do what he wants with Dean's miserable carcass, but his thoughts, his dreams are his own. 

Alistair pats down Cas and pulls out a gun that looks an awful lot like Dean's. Well, that does it. This can't be real. Cas would never carry a gun. Alistair easily pockets the firearm, ignoring Dean's thrashing.

"Like a rabid dog, this one," Alistair sighs, patting Dean's leg. Air rattles between Not-Cas' clenched teeth, a vein in his jaw throbbing in tune to the blood pulsing from Dean's wounds. "Would that make you his owner, then?"

"Let him go."

Alistair draws the needle from-actually, Dean has no clue what kind of Houdini shit that needle's appearing from- thin air. Dean howls, straining despite the burning agony. "Run, Not-Cas! Run! Get out of here, damn you!"

Not-Cas tries to calm him, but there's nowhere on Dean's body that isn't cut or burned for him to touch. Alistair's thin, sneering mug looms beneath Dean. He raises the needle, and Dean braces himself, but he's so relieved, because even if Not-Cas can't feel pain, Dean would rather Alistair turn him into fleshy Swiss cheese than hurt Not-Cas. 

The click of a sliding lock preempts Dean crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes. A bloody, boneless sack of potatoes. 

Not-Cas barely catches him in time. They slump to the floor in a heap, and warm and solid around Dean. Shame; he's getting blood all over his Hugo-something suit. 

Wait. 

_Wait._

"Cas?" Dean croaks.

"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here." Cas smooths Dean's hair with a very non-hallucinatory hand. 

Cas is here. Cas is here, trapped in a warehouse with Alistair, with Dean down for the count and the timer on his consciousness running low. 

"You fucking fucker," Dean slurs, and he commands his right arm to punch Cas, but it ignores him in favor of lying at an unnatural angle at his side. "Can't believe you. Cannot  _believe_ you."

"Well, isn't this touching?" Alistair drawls. Cas' arms tighten around Dean, sending bolts of white-hot agony through him. He hides his wince. "Reunited once again. Who wants to start the fun?"

 Cas' arms loosen around Dean, and to Dean's absolute horror, Cas starts to stand up. He clutches at his trenchcoat-wearing idiot's arms, using the feeble remains of his strength to try to wrestle Cas back down. 

"It's alright. It's going to be alright, Dean," Cas promises, and drops a kiss on Dean's forehead. Then he shakes off Dean's weak grip and squares off with Alistair. "I volunteer."

His muscles scream at him, but Dean manages to hoist himself against the wall. The bricks dig into his back. When he tries to stand, the pain is so unbearable that his vision temporarily darkens. Fucking hell; his leg's broken. He's helpless. Cas is in trouble, and Dean can't do anything but  _watch._

Alistair and Cas circle each other. There's no more taunting-no, something in the mood has shifted, leaving Alistair's expression grim and intrigued. 

"It seems Dean-o here isn't the only one with some training, huh?" Alistair hums, spinning the blade in his palm. It cuts through the air, a curved, sharp monstrosity of a weapon. Dean can personally attest to its effectiveness. "Not just another Juliet running to her Romeo, are you? Baby writer's got more than a pen under that trenchcoat."

Cas' face could be carved from granite. His eyes are pure ice, something old and terrifying unlocking inside him. It's something Dean vaguely remembers Cas alluding to, a long time ago...

_"I was the youngest of a particularly rough family. I grew up with my fists raised, and I don't belive I've ever learned to lay them down."_

_Dean's brow furrows. "Did they pick on you? Your brothers?"_

_On the pillow beside him, Cas eyes him. "Not always. Michael was only eighteen when he adopted us. He tried his best, but there were some...unsavory activities that my other brother set up. It was dangerous and dumb, but it taught me how to protect myself."_

_Talking about this is clearly sending Cas spiraling into Gloomsville, so Dean twists until he's got Cas pinned down beneath him, his knees bracketing this narrow hips. "And here I thought the pen was mightier than the sword."_

_"Dean, if you say what I think-"_

_"I got a sword you can swing right here."_

_"Dean!"_

 

Alistair swings, the dagger arcing towards Castiel's chest. A scream lodges in Dean's throat, but before it-or the dagger-succeeds, Cas whirls out of striking distance. He's light on his feet, nimble in a way that betrays his experience. Dean doesn't even want to consider what kind of experience Cas has dodging knives, but if its gonna keep him alive right here, right now, then thank God for that. 

"This is a truly shameful sight," Cas sighs. "Aren't you the fearsome serial killer that's got the LAPD running in circles? Is this the best you can do?" Cas shakes his head in mock-disappointment. If Dean wasn't currently feeling his intestines attempting to leak through his bellybutton, he'd get up for the sole purpose of beating the shit out of Cas himself. Or fucking him boneless. 

What? Apparently badass is a sexy shade on his writer. 

Snarling, Alistair slashes the knife. This time, it catches on the sleeve of his shirt. Bright crimson oozes from the cut, and Dean's heart stutters. In the same instant, Cas barrels into Alistair, knocking the dagger to the floor with a clatter. The two go down, and Dean can barely make out one from the other as fists fly in the air and each tries to get a stranglehold on the other. 

Alistair wins. 

He's got Cas on the ground, straddling his chest as his hands press down around his throat. His face is bloody and scraped, but he's gleeful as he chokes Cas.

Dean shouts and threatens, but Alistair doesn't give. In fact, Dean's pleas seem to invigorate him more. Cas' legs kick out harder, but he can't dislodge Alistair. Salt tears track down Dean's face. This is all his fault, his goddamn fault, and now Cas is going to die because of it. Because Dean couldn't mind his own business and leave him alone when he saw him sitting on that barstool, nursing his drink. No-because Dean couldn't push him away when Cas kissed him, over his shitty English paper in a drafty apartment. 

 Honest, smart, loving Cas is going to die, and it might as well be by Dean's own hand. 

A shot rings out, explosively loud in the empty expanse of the warehouse. Dean struggles to move to Cas, dragging his bum leg behind him and sliding inch-by-inch across the cold floor. Another shot, and this time Alistair cries out, reeling back. He clutches at his chest, where a circle of red is blooming over his shirt. 

Someone's shot Alistair. 

Hallelujah will have to wait. Cas surges onto his knees, his fist colliding with Alistair's cheek with a meaty  _thwack._ "I think-Cas, that's enough," Dean says with alarm when Cas follows Alistair's fallen form with his fists. There's none of the warmth or love that make Cas who he is. He's completely devoid of everything save singleminded rage. 

"Cas!" Dean shouts. "Stop!"

A tall man in an overcoat appears, gun held loosely in his right hand. The shooter unveiled. He watches Cas with wide eyes, only snapping to when Dean growls, "You just gonna stand around and look pretty? Help him!"

The guy wrestles Cas off Alistair. Or at least, he tries to. Dean doesn't envy the guy the collateral bruising he's racking. 

Oh wait, he's basically a blood smear on the floor. Right. Dude can suck it. 

Finally,  _finally,_ the sound of many running feet echoes toward them. They're swarmed by officers, some Dean knows, some he doesn't. He spots Jo and Benny closing in on Cas, caging him from Alistair. 

_It's over._

The valiant vestiges of consciousness that kept Dean grounded in this hell-hole begin to fray, one by one. Taking his weight off his elbows feels freaking heavenly, and he sighs when he lies back against the cold concrete. 

_Cas is okay._

He should probably see a shrink about his anger-management issues, but he's okay. And the temporarily-numbed wounds and pains wracking Dean's body are most definitely not okay. 

"Dean?" a gravelly voice, residual anger deepening it further, murmurs at his ear. "Dean, open your eyes."

Cas sounds worried. He shouldn't. Dean's so tired; he's just going to take a quick nap. A siesta, if you will. 

There's also the tiny fact that he can't currently pinpoint where his eyelids are. 

"Mmph," he says, when what he meant to say was 'Later'. 

"Medic!" Cas roars. "We need a medic over here! Please, Dean, let me see your eyes. Please."

"Nghphlm."  _I'm telling you, man, I can't find my ole beamers._

A hand smooths over his hair, a little too frantic to be soothing, but Dean'll take what he can get. He relaxes into the touch. 

"Longh un."  _Love you._

"Please, sweetheart," Cas whispers, lips moving against his temple, embedding the plea into Dean's skin. "Don't leave me. I need you. I just got you back. Please, Dean, stay awake. For me."

The desperate grief in Cas' voice is really bugging Dean, and he wants more than anything to stay awake. 

But no matter how hard he struggles, he's dragged under the tide. 

 

**Castiel**

He lied and said he was Dean's brother. 

Dean's actual brother was still driving over, and in no known universe was Castiel planning on pacing around a waiting room while the love of his life lay alone in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors. By the time Sam and the associated tribe showed up, Castiel was back in the waiting room while they prepped Dean for surgery. 

"They have to remove his spleen," Castiel flatly informed Sam upon arrival. "That fucker ruptured it."

Dean's surgery was successful, and Castiel listened stoically while the doctor listed the antibiotics Dean will need in the future to protect him from foreign and potentially harmful antibodies now that he's without his spleen. The bastard managed to maim Dean in a way that'll stay with him for the rest of his life. 

But he has a life left to live. That's what's important, and Castiel has spent the last three days stuck in an uncomfortable metal chair stamping the mantra into his head, using it as an axe to carve into his rock-solid fury. Dean's alive, and he shouldn't still be furious, shouldn't have needed an official warning from Jo not to get near the precinct or attempt to find out Alistair's location. 

Sam convinced everyone to leave when it became obvious Dean wasn't going to immediately wake up. He and Castiel lived at the hospital for the last agonizing seventy-two hours, and Castiel can confidently say Sam Winchester is very much Dean's brother. No one outside their unique genetic code could hassle Castiel for a solid fifty-four minutes about taking the spare bed while they slept in the chair and in the same breath wrinkle their nose and demand to know when the last time Castiel washed his trench coat was. 

There was one attempt to convince Sam to leave for his honeymoon, but it was met with a silence so frosty, Castiel didn't try again. Strangely enough, he was proud of how steadfast Sam was in sticking by his brother's side. Dean raised his person, crafted him into an empathetic, obnoxiously idealistic, and kind individual. Credit is wholly due to Dean, but Castiel can't help the oddly paternal drive he has for a man only five years his junior. 

On the fourth day of their horrendous hospital adventure, Dean wakes up. 

It happens while Castiel is in the middle of writing the twentieth chapter of his book. He's taken to writing long-hand, since setting up a laptop in a cramped hospital room already brimming with technology isn't easy. Plus, he kind of likes the feel of being able to trace his thumb across the drying ink and feel the words. 

"Do you and the notebook need the room?" a hoarse, beautiful,  _perfect_ voice asks. 

Castiel's neck snaps up so fast he almost tumbles from the chair, but he catches himself at the last second. And there they are, green eyes, weary and bloodshot, but warm with life. 

He made it. Dean made it. 

And just like that, the gratitude Castiel has been trying to mold from rage for the last four days hits him like a tsunami. He drops his notebook to lunge for Dean's hand and press it to his face, where tears are running down his cheeks in a torrent. 

"Hey, hey now, none of that," Dean gripes. He squeezes Castiel's hand weakly. "I'm right here. Nothing happened."

"Nothing  _happened_?" Castiel returns, incredulous. "Alistair almost killed you! They had to surgically remove your spleen because he ruptured it, and you have more stitches on your body than a biker in a tri-state pile-up!"

"They took out my spleen? My spleen! Wait, what's that do again?"

Castiel drops his head onto the bed and groans into the cheap bedspread. Dean's fingers waste no time finding his hair and raking through the knotted strands. Hospital showers aren't known for having the best mineral water, and Castiel' hair has suffered for it. Not that Dean seems to notice, or care. 

Choosing that moment to enter, Sam's yelp of surprise rockets Casiel back into an upright position. Sam tries to hug his brother, but settles on a peck on the cheek, to which Dean scrunches his face. "We ain't European, Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes. "No brain damage, then. Well..no more, I should say."

Their absurd bickering is oddly comforting. Castiel doesn't let go of Dean's hand. At some point, the nurse returns to take Dean's vitals and insert more pain meds in his IV. Dean falls asleep again, but not without telling Sam to get home to his wife or else Dean will "roast your fruity insides on a spit and eat 'em with barbecue sauce."

"This is the man I've chosen to love," Castiel muttered. Dean snorted as his eyes drifted shut. "Love's not a choice, assbutt."

"Oh my God, when will you let that word go? It was  _one time,_ I spent the whole night writing and I was exhausted!" 

Dean's not awake to hear Castiel's impassioned defense. Castiel sighs and kisses the healing scrapes on Dean's knuckles. 

No, he supposes Dean was never a choice at all. Dean was, is, and will always be  _it_  for CastielThe future isn't terrifying anymore. Gabriel won't be the one to fish his ear out of the cereal bowl or nag him to sleep more. It won't be Castiel's grey, windowless apartment he comes home to. He's gone from being alone to having an extended family that talks too much, too loud, and too often, but he gets Dean in the bundle. He gets a later with Dean. 

And everything after that is only semantics. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~THE END~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cup of coffee, a stray impulse, and here we are, three(ish) months later. A heartfelt thank-you to each and every one of you for sticking with it, and for being some of the best readers a girl could ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on Twitter @ nerdysuccubus, I'm sorry and don't tell my mother


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